THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Gladys  Wick  son 

Ida  Wickson  Thomas 

Ednah  Wickson  Kelly 


I 

1 


Henry  W.   Longfellow. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

H.  W.   LONGFELLOW 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

BY 

N.   H.  DOLE 


NEW  YORK  :  46  EAST  FOURTEENTH  STREET 

THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON:   100  PURCHASE  STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
BY  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co, 


VOl 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH ix 

VOICES    OF   THE   NIGHT. 

PRELUDE    i 

VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 6 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 7 

THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS 9 

THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS 10 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS 1 1 

FLOWERS 13 

THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY 15 

MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR      ...  17 

EARLIER   POEMS. 

AN  APRIL  DAY 20 

AUTUMN 21 

WOODS  IN  WINTER 23 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM  .  24 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS 26 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY 27 

BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK 29 

TRANSLATIONS. 

COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE 3" 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD .  52 

TO-MORROW .  £? 

ill 


033 


CONTENTS. 


THE  NATIVE  LAND      ...          53 

THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD    ..........  54 

THE  BROOK   .............  55 

THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT .     .  55 

THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE      .......  57 

BEATRICE  ... 59 

SPRING .  61 

THE  CHILD  ASLEEP 62 

THE  GRAVE 63 

KING  CHRISTIAN 64 

THE  HAPPIEST  LAND 66 

THE  WAVE .- 68 

THE  DEAD .     .  68 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP 69 

WHITHER? 71 

BEWARE  ! 72 

SONG  OF  THE  BELL 73 

THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA 74 

THE  BLACK  KNIGHT 75 

SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND 78 

L'ENVOI 79 


BALLADS   AND    OTHER   POEMS. 

PREFACE 81 

BALLADS. 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR 91 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 98 

THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL 102 

THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT 104 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER,  107 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 131 

ENDYMION 133 

THE  Two  LOCKS  OF  HAIR* .  134 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY 136 

THE  RAINY  DAY 137 

GOD'S-ACRE 137 

To  THE  RIVER  CHARLES 138 

BLIND  BARTIMEUS 140 

THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE 141 

MAIDENHOOD 144 

EXCELSIOR 146 


POEMS   ON   SLAVERY. 

To  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING 149 

THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM 150 

THE  GOOD  PART 152 

THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 154 

THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT 155 

THE  WITNESSES 156 

THE  QUADROON  GIRL  . 158 

THE  WARNING    .  160 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND 
OTHER  POEMS. 

CARILLON 161 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 163 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE 167 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 169 

NUREMBERG 171 

THE  NORMAN  BARON 175 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER 178 

To  A  CHILD 182 

THE  OCCULT ATION  OF  ORION 188 

THE  BRIDGE 191 

To  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD 193 


VI  CONTENTS. 


SONGS. 

SEAWEED 196 

THE  DAY  is  DONE 198 

AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY     199 

To  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK 200 

WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID 203 

DRINKING  SONG 205 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS 207 

THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG 210 

SONNETS. 

THE  EVENING  STAR 211 

AUTUMN 211 

DANTE 212 

TRANSLATIONS. 

THE  HEMLOCK-TREE 213 

ANNIE  OF  THARAW 214 

THE  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  DOOR.     .     .  216 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL 216 

THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS 217 

POETIC  APHORISMS 218 

CURFEW 222 

THE   SEASIDE   AND   THE   FIRESIDE. 

DEDICATION 224 

BY   THE   SEASIDE. 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHI? 226 

THE  EVENING  STAR 240 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA 240 

TWILIGHT 242 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT 243 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE 245 

THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD 247 


CONTENTS.  vii 


BY   THE   FIRESIDE.  PAGE 

RESIGNATION 250 

THE  BUILDERS 252 

SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS       .     .253 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 255 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW 257 

KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN 258 

CASPAR  BECERRA 259 

PEGASUS  IN  POUND 260 

TEGNER'S  DRAPA 263 

SONNET 266 

THE  SINGERS 266 

SUSPIRIA 268 

HYMN   .                                                             ...  268 


TRANSLATIONS. 

THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE 270 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 284 

NOTES 287 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  was  born  on  the 
2;th  of  February,  1807,  in  Portland,  Maine. 

His  father,  Stephen  Longfellow,  a  graduate  of  Harvard 
College,  in  the  class  with  Dr.  Channing,  Judge  Story,  and 
other  distinguished  men,  practised  his  profession  of  the 
Law  at  the  Cumberland  Bar,  where  he  soon  won  a  promi 
nent  position.  He  also  took  an  active  part  in  politics, 
and  was  sent  as  a  Representative  to  the  Massachusetts 
Legislature,  and  after  the  separation  represented  his 
State  in  Congress.  He  married  Zilpah  Wadsworth,  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  General  Peleg  Wadsworth,  of  a 
family  which  traced  its  ancestry  back  to  John  Alden  and 
Priscilla  Mullens. 

Henry  Wadsworth  was  named  after  his  maternal  uncle, 
a  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  who  perished  in  the  fireship, 
Intrepid,  before  Tripoli,  in  1804.  He  was  second  in  a 
family  of  four  sons  and  four  daughters.  Their  father,  says 
Samuel  Longfellow,  "  was  at  once  kind  and  strict,  bringing 
up  his  children  in  habits  of  respect  and  obedience,  of  un 
selfishness,  the  dread  of  debt,  and  the  faithful  performance 
of  duty."  According  to  the  same  authority  the  mother 
was  fond  of  poetry  and  music,  a  lover  of  nature,  cheerful 
even  under  the  trials  of  chronic  invalidism,  full  of  piety, 
kind  to  her  neighbors,  the  devoted  friend  and  confidante  of 
her  children. 

ix 


X      HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Henry  was  a  lively,  active  boy,  impetuous  and  quick 
tempered,  but  affectionate  and  placable,  sensitive  and 
impressionable.  He  was  fond  of  singing  and  dancing, 
but  greatly  disliked  loud  noise  and  excitement.  He  was 
remarkably  neat  and  orderly,  "  solicitous  always  to  do 
right,"  industrious  and  persevering.  He  began  to  go  to 
school  when  he  was  three  years  old.  Before  he  was  seven 
he  had  studied  half-way  through  the  Latin  grammar.  One 
of  his  teachers  at  the  Portland  Academy  was  the  famous 
Jacob  Abbott.  At  home,  his  father's  library  gave  his  hun 
ger  for  literature  sufficient  of  the  best  food,  —  Shakespeare, 
Miton,  Pope,  Dryden,  Goldsmith,  the  best  poets,  essayists, 
and  historians,  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  "Don  Quixote," 
and  Ossian. 

The  first  book  to  fascinate  his  imagination  was  Washing 
ton  Irving's  "  Sketch  Book."  He  was  a  school-boy  of  twelve 
when  the  first  number  came  out;  and  he  long  afterwards 
declared  that  he  read  it  "  with  ever  increasing  wonder  and 
delight,  spell-bound  by  its  pleasant  humor,  its  melancholy 
tenderness,  its  atmosphere  of  revery  —  nay,  even  by  its 
gray-brown  covers,  the  shaded  letters  of  its  titles,  and  the 
fair,  clear  type,  which  seemed  an  outward  symbol  of  its 
style." 

Not  less  poetically  nurturing  must  have  been  the  situa 
tion  of  the  old  Wadsworth  mansion,  then  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  from  whose  upper  windows  on  the  one  side 
Mt.  Washington  was  plainly  visible  seventy  miles  away, 
and  on  the  other  the  beautiful  bay  with  its  unnumbered 
islands,  the  majestic  bluff  of  White  Head,  the  frowning 
walls  of  Fort  Preble,  and  the  lighthouse  on  the  Cape. 

His  holidays  were  usually  spent  on  the  farm  of  his 
grandfather,  Judge  Longfellow,  about  three  miles  from 
Gorham  Corner.  His  Uncle  and  Aunt  Stephenson  and 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW      xi 

their  children  lived  on  the  adjoining  farm  and  gave  him 
pleasant  companionship.  Sometimes  he  visited  his  grand 
father  Wadsworth  who  lived  on  his  estate  of  seven  thou 
sand  acres  in  Hiram,  between  the  Saco  and  Ossipee  rivers. 
Both  of  his  grandfathers  dressed  in  the  old-time  style  of 
small-clothes  and  club-tied  hair.  General  Wadsworth 
years  before  had  even  indulged  in  writing  satirical  verses. 
He  was  a  capital  story-teller,  and  had  a  great  fund  of  per 
sonal  reminiscences  of  his  Harvard  and  army  days,  his 
capture  by  the  British,  and  his  escape  from  the  fort  at 
Castine.  All  these  things  had  their  effect  upon  an  impres 
sionable  mind. 

One  November  day  in  1820,  the  boy,  with  fear  and 
trembling,  slipped  a  manuscript  poem  into  the  letter-box  of 
the  Portland  Gazette.  When  the  semi-weekly  next 
appeared,  his  verses,  signed  "  HENRY,"  were  printed  in 
the  "  Poet's  Corner."  They  were  in  commemoration 
of  a  fight  with  the  Indians  at  a  pond  not  far  from  Hiram:  — 


THE    BATTLE   OF    LOVELL'S    POND. 

Cold,  cold  is  the  north-wind,  and  rude  is  the  blast 

That  sweeps  like  a  hurricane  loudly  and  fast, 

As  it  moans  through  the  tall,  waving  pines  lone  and  drear, 

Sighs  a  requiem  sad  o'er  the  warrior's  bier. 

The  war-whoop  is  still,  and  the  savage's  yell 

Has  sunk  into  silence  along  the  wild  dell. 

The  din  of  the  battle,  the  tumult  is  o'er, 

And  the  war-clarion's  voice  is  now  heard  no  more. 

The  warriors  that  fought  for  their  country  and  bled, 
Have  sunk  to  their  rest;  the  damp  earth  is  their  bed; 
No  stone  tells  the  place  where  their  ashes  repose, 
Nor  points  out  the  spot  from  the  graves  of  their  foes. 


Xll    HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

They  died  in  their  glory,  surrounded  by  fame, 
And  Victory's  loud  trump  their  death  did  proclaim. 
They  are  dead  ;  but  they  live  in  each  Patriot's  breast, 
And  their  names  are  engraven  on  honor's  bright  crest. 

Stiff,  unmetrical,  stilted,  unoriginal  as  these  lines  were, 
they  gave  the  boy  and  the  sister  who  was  alone  in  the 
secret,  unalloyed  satisfaction.  But  soon  criticism  came  to 
turn  joy  to  tears.  Judge  Mellen,  a  neighbor,  happened,  in 
the  poet's  hearing,  to  condemn  them.  He  escaped  from 
under  the  whip  as  speedily  as  possible,  but  was  not  dis 
couraged.  Other  pieces  from  his  pen  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  the  Gazette.  He  also  wrote  a  poetic  "  Address  " 
for  the  newspaper-carriers'  annual  presentation. 

Before  he  was  fifteen  he  successfully  passed  the  Bow- 
doin  College  entrance  examinations,  but  did  not  reside  at 
Brunswick  till  the  beginning  of  the  sophomore  year. 
When  he  and  his  brother  went  up  together,  they  lodged  in 
the  village  in  the  house  where  afterwards  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  "  was  written.  The  only  ornament  of  their  uncar- 
peted  room  was  a  set  of  card-racks  painted  by  their  sister. 
They  complained  of  the  difficulty  of  keeping  themselves 
warm ;  and  their  mother  wrote  that  she  was  afraid  learning 
would  not  flourish  or  their  ideas  -properly  expand  in  a 
frosty  atmosphere,  and,  she  added,  "  I  fear  the  Muses  will 
not  visit  you." 

In  those  days  he  was  described  as  slight  and  erect  in 
figure,  with  a  light,  delicate  complexion  like  a  maiden's, 
a  slight  bloom  upon  his  cheeks,  "his  nose  rather  promi 
nent,  his  eyes  clear  and  blue,  and  his  well-formed  head 
covered  with  a  profusion  of  brown  hair  waving  loosely." 
The  class  to  which  he  belonged  had  several  memorable 
names,  not  the  least  distinguished  of  which  was  that  of 
Hawthorne.  Longfellow  held  high  rank.  He  was  regu- 


HENRY   WADSIVORTH  LONGFELLOW    Xlll 

lar  and  studious  in  his  habits,  though  he  cared  more  about 
general  reading  than  the  special  curriculum.  It  is  inter 
esting  to  find  him  at  that  early  day  taking  the  side  of  the 
Indians  against  the  prejudices  that  have  always  followed 
"that  reviled  and  persecuted  race."  He  was  greatly  de 
lighted  with  Gray's  poems,  and  regarded  Dr.  Johnson's  crit 
icisms  upon  them  as  unjust.  In  the  winter  vacation  of 
1823,  he  had  some  thought  of  teaching  a  school,  but  was, 
on  the  whole,  glad  that  he  had  failed  to  obtain  one.  His 
chief  exercise  was  walking.  When  the  snow  was  deep  he 
cut  wood,  and  he  found  it  rather  irksome.  As  a  make 
shift  for  either,  he  wrote  his  father,  "  I  have  marked  out 
an  image  upon  my  closet-door  about  my  own  size;  and 
whenever  I  feel  the  want  of  exercise  I  strip  off  my  coat, 
and,  considering  this  image  as  in  a  posture  of  defence, 
make  my  motions  as  though  in  actual  combat.  This  is  a 
very  classick  amusement,  and* I  have  already  become  quite 
skilful  as  a  pugilist." 

In  February,  1824,  he  made  his  first  visit  to  Boston,  saw 
all  the  sights,  except  the  Mill-dam,  attended  a  ball  at  the 
house  of  the  beautiful  and  talented  Miss  Emily  Marshall, 
enjoyed  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee,  and  found  himself 
"much  pleased  with  the  city  itself  as  well  as  with  the 
inhabitants." 

The  most  of  his  vacations,  however,  he  spent  at  his 
Portland  home.  When  the  college  course  came  to  an  end 
he  found  himself  number  four  in  his  class.  "  How  I  came 
to  get  so  high,  is  rather  a  mystery  to  me,"  he  wrote,  "  in 
asmuch  as  I  have  never  been  a  remarkably  hard  student, 
touching  college  studies,  except  during  my  Sophomore 
year,  when  I  used  to  think  that  I  was  studying  pretty 
hard."  He  chose  for  his  commencement  part  an  oration 
on  the  "  Life  and  Writings  of  Chatterton,"  but  his  father 


XIV    HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

thought  that  so  few  of  his  audience  had  ever  heard  of 
Chatterton  he  would  better  take  a  more  popular  subject. 
He  accordingly  took  for  his  theme  "  Our  Native  Writers." 
During  all  his  stay  at  Brunswick  he  continued  to  write 
poetry.  Two  stanzas  of  a  poem  "To  lanthe  "  are  con 
sidered  by  his  brother  Samuel  as  alone  worthy  of  preser 
vation  from  the  work  of  his  first  year : 

When  upon  the  western  cloud 

Hang  day's  fading  roses, 
When  the  linnet  sings  aloud, 

And  the  twilight  closes,  — 
As  I  mark  the  moss-grown  spring 

By  the  twisted  holly, 
Pensive  thoughts  of  thee  shall  bring 

Love's  own  melancholy. 

Then  when  tranquil  evening  throws 

Twilight  shades  above  thee, 
And  when  early  morning  glows, 

Think  on  those  that  love  thee ! 
For  an  interval  of  years 

We  ere  long  must  sever, 
But  the  hearts  that  love  endears 

Shall  be  parted  never. 

These  early  poems,  like  much  imitative  verse,  bore  the 
impress  of  deep-settled  melancholy.  One  of  his  corre 
spondents  wrote  him  that  it  was  an  enigma  how  one  so 
cheerful  and  laughter-loving  should  write  in  such  strains. 
In  the  fifteenth  number  of  the  United  States  Gazette,  a 
fortnightly  which  had  been  started  in  April,  1824,  edited 
by  Theophilus  Parsons,  appeared  a  poem  entitled  "  Thanks 
giving,"  and  signed  "  H.  W.  L."  During  the  following 
year  Longfellow  contributed  sixteen  others,  five  of  which 
were  reprinted  in  "  Voices  of  the  Night."  He  also  con 
tributed  to  the  Gazette  three  prose  sketches,  which  showed 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     XV 

the  influence  of  Irving,  as  the  poems  showed  that  of  Bry 
ant.  Several  poems  were  also  incorporated  in  them,  and 
one  of  these  was  afterwards  reprinted  with  his  name : 

THE  ANGLER'S  SONG. 

From  the  river's  plashy  bank, 

Where  the  sedge  grows  green  and  rank 

And  the  twisted  woodbine  springs, 
Upward  speeds  the  morning  lark 
To  its  silver  cloud  —  and  hark  ! 

On  his  way  the  woodman  sings. 

Where  the  embracing  ivy  holds 
Close  the  hoar  elm  in  its  folds, 

In  the  meadow's  fenny  land, 
And  the  winding  river  sweeps 
Thro'  its  shallows  and  still  deeps, 

Silent  with  my  rod  I  stand. 

But  when  sultry  suns  are  high, 
Underneath  the  oak  I  lie, 

As  it  shades  the  water's  edge; 
And  I  mark  my  line  away, 
In  the  wheeling  eddy  play 

Tangling  with  the  river  sedge. 

When  the  eye  of  evening  looks 

On  green  woods  and  winding  brooks, 

And  the  wind  sighs  o'er  the  lea,  — 
Woods  and  streams  I  leave  you  then, 
While  the  shadows  in  the  glen 

Lengthen  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

So  far  not  a  ray  of  originality,  nor  one  of  those  graceful, 
if  not  always  accurate,  comparisons  or  metaphors  which 
peculiarly  mark  Longfellow's  fancy.  The  Yankee  "  wood 
man  "  is  not  a  singing  being,  nor  have  we  "  larks  "  under 
New  England  skies.  It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the 
Gazette  then  paid  its  contributors  a  dollar  a  column  for 
prose,  and  got  its  poetry  for  nothing.  The  editor  regarded 


XVI    HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Longfellow's,  however,  as  so  full  of  promise  —  and  any 
flower  in  the  desert  has  a  smiling  aspect  —  that  he  pro 
posed  that  the  poet  should  receive  some  compensation  for 
regular  contributions.  This,  small  as  it  was,  seems  to 
have  been  enough  to  excite  Longfellow's  ambition  toward 
a  literary  career.  He  brought  up  objections  against  the 
profession  of  a  physician  —  there  were  quite  enough  in 
the  world  without  him !  In  another  letter  to  his  father  he 
said,  "  I  hardly  think  Nature  designed  me  for  the  bar,  or 
the  pulpit,  or  the  dissecting-room;"  and  again,  "  I  cannot 
make  a  lawyer  of  any  eminence,  because  I  have  not  a  talent 
for  argument;  I  am  not  good  enough  for  a  minister;  and 
as  to  Physic,  I  utterly  and  absolutely  detest  it." 

Literature  beckoned  more  enticingly:  "The  fact  is,  I 
most  eagerly  aspire  after  future  eminence  in  literature  ; 
my  whole  soul  burns  most  ardently  for  it,  and  every  earthly 
thought  centres  in  it.  There  may  be  something  visionary 
in  this,  but  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  prudence  enough  to 
keep  my  enthusiasm  from  defeating  its  own  object  by  too 
great  haste.  Surely,  there  never  was  a  better  opportunity 
offered  for  the  exertion  of  literary  talent  in  our  own  coun 
try  than  is  now  offered." 

His  wise  father  replied  with  words  that  are  as  appli 
cable  to-day  as  they  were  almost  seventy  years  ago : 

"  A  literary  life,  to  one  who  has  the  means  of  support, 
must  be  very  pleasant.  But  there  is  not  wealth  enough  in 
this  country  to  afford  encouragement  and  patronage  to 
merely  literary  men.  And  as  you  have  not  had  the  for 
tune  (I  will  not  say  whether  good  or  ill)  to  be  born  rich, 
you  must  adopt  a  profession  which  will  afford  you  subsis 
tence  as  well  as  reputation.  I  am  happy  to  observe  that 
my  ambition  has  never  been  to  accumulate  wealth  for  my 
children,  but  to  cultivate  their  minds  in  the  best  possible 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW   xvil 

manner,  and  to  imbue  them  with  correct  moral,  political, 
and  religious  principles,  —  believing  that  a  person  thus 
educated  will,  with  proper  diligence,  be  certain  of  attain 
ing  all  the  wealth  which  is  necessary  to  happiness." 

His  father,  while  believing  that  it  would  be  best  for  him 
to  adopt  the  profession  of  the  law,  readily  acceded  to  his 
desire  to  spend  a  year  at  Cambridge  in  the  pursuit  of 
general  literature,  and  particularly  of  the  modern  languages. 

The  Cambridge  plan  was  suddenly  supplanted  by  another, 
which  led  directly  in  the  path  of  his  ambition.  The  trus 
tees  of  Bowdoin  College,  having  already  a  foundation  of 
a  thousand  dollars  given  by  Madam  Bowdoin,  deter 
mined  to  establish  a  Professorship  of  Modern  Languages. 
One  of  the  Board  is  said  to  have  been  so  much  struck  by 
Longfellow's  translation  of  an  ode  of  Horace,  that  he  pre 
sented  the  poet's  name  for  the  new  chair.  It  was  infor 
mally  proposed  that  he  should  visit  Europe  to  fit  himself 
for  the  position,  which  on  his  return  would  be  awaiting 
him. 

Until  the  suitable  time  for  the  voyage  he  desultorily  read 
law  in  his  father's  office,  and  thus  spent  the  fall  and  winter  of 
1825-6.  During  this  period  he  wrote  "The  Burial  of  the 
Minnisink  "  and  several  other  poems  for  the  Gazette  and 
the  Atlantic  Souvenir.  The  last  poem  published  in  the 
Gazette  was  a  song : 

Where  from  the  eye  of  day, 

The  dark  and  silent  river 
Pursues  thro'  tangled  woods  a  way, 

O'er  which  the  tall  trees  quiver, 

The  silver  mist  that  breaks 

From  out  that  woodland  cover, 

Betrays  the  hidden  path  it  takes, 
And  hangs  the  current  over. 


XVI 11      HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

So  oft  the  thoughts  that  burst 
From  hidden  streams  of  feeling, 

Like  silent  streams  unseen  at  first, 
From  our  cold  hearts  are  stealing; 

But  soon  the  clouds  that  veil 
The  eye  of  Love  when  glowing, 

Betray  the  long  unwhispered  tale 
Of  thoughts  in  darkness  flowing. 

Commonplace  and  prosy  as  these  lines  are,  they  yet 
have  that  homely  simplicity  which  made  Longfellow's 
poems  go  straight  to  the  popular  heart. 

Toward  the  last  of  April  he  left  his  home  for  New  York, 
where  he  was  to  take  the  packet  for  Europe.  The  journey 
was  at  that  time  slow  and  tedious :  by  stage  to  Boston, 
thence  through  Northampton  to  Albany  and  down  the  Hud 
son.  Both  at  Boston  and  at  Northampton  he  made  stops, 
and  was  given  letters  of  introduction  to  persons  abroad. 
While  waiting  for  the  sailing  of  the  Cadmus  he  made  a 
short  visit  to  Philadelphia,  which  he  found  not  half  so 
pleasant  as  New  York.  It  was  during  this  visit,  says  his 
biographer,  that  strolling  through  the  streets  of  the  city 
one  morning,  he  came  upon  the  pleasant  enclosure  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Hospital  on  Spruce  Street.  He  remembered 
the  picture  when  he  came  to  write  "  Evangeline." 

After  an  uneventful  voyage  of  thirty  days,  Longfellow 
was  landed  at  Havre,  which  delighted  him  with  its  quaint- 
ness  and  oddity.  He  saw  his  first  cathedral  at  Rouen, 
and  reached  Paris  on  the  nineteenth  of  June.  He  trav 
elled  by  diligence,  and  found  even  "  the  French  dust  more 
palatable  than  that  at  home."  The  city  at  that  day  was 
not  the  splendidly  paved,  bright  and  cheerful  Queen  of 
cities  that  it  is  to-day.  Longfellow  found  it  a  gloomy 
place,  "built  all  of  yellow  stone,  streaked  and  defaced 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW     XIX 

with  smoke  and  dust,  streets  narrow  and  full  of  black  mud 
which  comes  up  through  the  pavement  .  .  .  no  sidewalks; 
cabriolets,  fiacres,  and  carriages  of  all  kinds  driving  close  to 
the  houses,  and  spattering  or  running  down  whole  ranks 
of  foot-passengers,  and  noise  and  stench  enough  to  drive  a 
man  mad."  He  liked  the  public  gardens  and  the  boule 
vards,  and  soon  found  himself  "settled  down  into  some 
thing  between  a  Frenchman  and  a  New  Englander, — within 
all  Jonathan,  but  outwardly  a  little  of  a  Parlez-vorts." 

Nevertheless,  he  was  greatly  disappointed  in  finding 
his  advantages  in  the  acquirement  of  French  less  than 
he  had  expected,  and  in  making  comparatively  slow  prog 
ress.  There  was  too  much  temptation  to  speak  English. 
Most  of  the  people  to  whom  he  had  letters  were  absent 
from  town:  lectures  would  not  begin  till  November. 

Taking  advantage  of  this  excuse,  he  set  out  on  a  pedes 
trian  tour  through  central  France.  Like  Goldsmith  he 
carried  his  flute  in  his  knapsack,  but  was  quite  disillusion 
ized  to  find  that  the  peasantry  had  degenerated  since 
Goldsmith's  day.  He  wanted  to  get  into  one  of  the 
cottages  to  study  character,  and  determined,  if  possible, 
to  get  an  invitation.  Falling  in  with  a  party  of  peasants, 
he  addressed  a  girl  who  happened  to  be  walking  by  his 
side,  told  her  he  had  a  flute,  and  asked  her  if  she  would 
like  to  dance.  She  replied  that  she  liked  to  dance,  but 
did  not  know  what  a  flute  was.  He  returned  to  Paris,  and 
stayed  there  till  the  twenty-first  of  February.  Then  he 
set  out  for  Spain,  feeling  comparatively  satisfied  with  his 
knowledge  of  French,  but  without  sorrow  at  leaving 
France.  His  journey  to  Madrid  was  uneventful :  he  was 
not  even  robbed,  though  the  country  was  infested  with 
hordes  of  banditti.  At  Madrid  he  found  Alexander 
Everett  and  his  family,  Washington  Irving,  then  engaged 


XX      HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

in  writing  his  Columbus,  and  one  or  two  other  Americans. 
He  took  lodgings  at  a  pleasant  house  in  the  family  of.  an 
elderly  gentleman,  his  wife  and  daughter,  a  young  lady  of 
eighteen,  who  quickly  became  quite  a  sister  to  him,  and 
made  his  acquisition  of  Spanish  "  a  delightful  task." 

In  September,  1827,  Longfellow  started  for  Italy,  taking 
thirteen  days  to  go  to  Seville  with  which  "  Paris  of  the 
South  "  he  was  disappointed.  The  Guadalquivir  reminded 
him  of  the  Delaware,  though  more  majestic,  and  flowing 
ihrough  infinitely  more  fertile  banks.  He  spent  nearly  a 
fortnight  in  Cadiz,  and  then  travelled  to  Gibraltar  on  horse 
back,  through  a  wild  and  uncultivated  region.  From 
there  he  went  by  sea  to  Malaga,  where  he  spent  a  week; 
then  visited  the  romantic  region  of  the  Moors,  spending 
five  days  at  Granada.  In  those  five  days  he  declared  "  he 
lived  almost  a  century." 

These  eight  months  in  Spain  were  among  the  happiest 
and  most  romantic  of  his  life,  and  he  never  cared  to  go  to 
Spain  again  lest  the  illusion  should  be  destroyed. 

At  Florence  he  found  the  so-called  "  glassy  Arno  "  "  a 
stream  of  muddy  water  almost  entirely  dry  in  summer," 
while  the  other  stock  accessories  of  Italian  romance  — 
"boatmen  and  convent  bells,  and  white-robed  nuns  and 
midnight  song,"  were  less  agreeable  in  reality  than  in 
imagination.  But  he  enjoyed  excellent  society  there,  and 
princesses  played  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  for  him  and  gave 
him  breakfasts.  He  was  disappointed  in  the  Tuscan  pro 
nunciation,  and  stayed  only  a  month. 

In  February  he  entered  Rome,  but  in  spite  of  all  the 
gayeties  of  the  Carnival  he  pursued  his  studies.  At  first 
he  intended  to  cut  short  his  visit  to  Rome,  but  delayed  by 
the  failure  to  receive  a  remittance,  he  caught  the  Roman 
fever  and  was  seriously  ill.  The  result  was  that  he  spent 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW      xxi 

nearly  a  little  more  than  a  year  in  Italy.  While  still  in 
Rome  he  received  word  that  the  anticipated  appointment 
as  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  had  been  refused  him 
on  the  score  of  his  youth.  The  disappointment  was  all 
the  more  cruel  because  he  felt  that  he  had  honestly  earned 
the  place.  He  had  become  so  conversant  with  French 
and  Spanish  as  to  speak  them  correctly  and  write  them 
with  the  ease  and  fluency  of  his  native  tongue.  Portu 
guese  he  read  with  ease,  and  at  the  Italian  hotels  he  was 
frequently  taken  for  an  Italian. 

Longfellow  spent  a  month  in  Dresden;  but  social  advan 
tages  and  amusements  prevented  more  serious  studies,  and 
as  his  friend  Preble  was  at  Gottingen,  he  determined  to  go 
there  and  study  during  as  much  of  a  year  as  possible.  In 
the  spring  of  1829  he  ran  over  to  England,  spent  a  few 
days  in  London,  and  returned  through  Holland.  The 
Rhine  he  thought  a  noble  river,  but  not  so  fine  as  the 
Hudson.  The  old  castle  of  Vautsberg,  near  Bingen,  es 
pecially  delighted  him,  and  here  he  afterwards  located 
some  of  the  scenes  of  the  "  Golden  Legend." 

He  thought  the  advantages  for  a  student  very  great  at 
Gottingen,  but  he  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  cut  short  his 
stay;  and  after  a  few  days  spent  in  Paris,  London,  Oxford, 
and  other  English  towns,  he  sailed  from  Liverpool,  and 
reached  New  York  on  August  u,  1829. 

Soon  after  his  return  he  was  appointed  to  the  professor 
ship  at  Bowdoin,  at  a  salary  of  eight  hundred  dollars, 
which  was  enlarged  to  nine  hundred  dollars  by  the  addi 
tional  office  of  librarian.  He  immediately  took  up  his 
duties  and  fulfilled  them  to  general  satisfaction.  He 
translated  a  French  Grammar  and  prepared  several  other 
text-books.  His  first  recitation  took  place  before  break 
fast,  at  six  in  the  morning.  At  eleven  he  listened  to  the 


XX11        HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

juniors  in  Spanish.  His  library  duties  occupied  the  noon 
hour,  and  the  last  recitation  of  the  day  came  at  five.  He 
also,  during  his  second  year,  prepared  a  course  of  lectures 
on  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  literature.  Poetry  was 
for  the  present  in  abeyance;  but  he  soon  began  to  contrib 
ute  to  the  North  American  Review,  then  edited  by 
Alexander  Everett.  In  the  course  of  the  next  ten  years 
nearly  a  dozen  articles  on  various  literary  subjects  con 
nected  with  his  studies  appeared.  Most  of  them  were 
illustrated  with  metrical  translations  from  various  lan 
guages.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  few  poets  ever  excelled  him 
in  this  difficult  art. 

In  September,  1831,  Longfellow  was  married  to  Mary 
Storer  Potter,  second  daughter  of  Judge  Barrett  Potter  of 
Portland.  She  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  and  their 
marriage  was  very  happy.  Just  a  year  later,  he  delivered 
the  poem  for  the  Bowdoin  chapter  of  the  $.B.K.  Society, 
and  was  asked  to  repeat  it  at  Cambridge.  This  was  his 
first  original  poem  in  eight  years.  His  first  book  was 
the  "  Coplas  of  Don  Jorge  Manrique,"  preceded  by  an 
essay  on  the  Moral  and  Devotional  poetry  of  Spain, 
and  supplemented  by  half  a  dozen  sonnets  from  the 
Spanish. 

He  also  published  parts  of  "  Outre-Mer  "  in  pamphlet 
form.  After  he  had  been  in  Brunswick  three  years  he 
began  to  yearn  for  wider  fields.  Several  openings  were 
suggested  which  brought  no  result.  But  early  in  December, 
1834,  he  was  offered  the  Smith  professorship  of  modern  lan 
guages  at  Harvard,  with  a  salary  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
a  year  and  the  privilege  of  residing  in  Europe  for  a  year  or 
eighteen  months  for  more  perfect  preparation  in  German. 
He  accepted  this  "  good  fortune,"  as  he  called  it,  and  in 
April,  1835,  sailed  with  his  wife  for  Europe.  In  England 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  xxiii 

he  enjoyed  friendly  acquaintances  with  Sir  John  Bowring, 
the  Lockharts,  the  Carlyles,  and  others;  in  Sweden  he 
studied  the  language,  which  he  found  "soft  and  musical, 
with  an  accent  like  Lowland  Scotch."  He  also  took  les 
sons  in  Finnish,  and  laid  the  foundation  for  his  acquaintance 
with  the  great  Finnish  epic,  the  "  Kalevala,"  the  rhythm 
and  style  of  which  he  afterwards  copied  in  "  Hiawatha." 
The  results  of  his  stay  in  Stockholm  are  seen  in  his  beauti 
ful  translations  from  Bishop  Tegner. 

In  Copenhagen  he  took  lessons  in  Danish,  and  was 
made  a  member  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Antiqui 
ties.  During  a  month's  enforced  stay  in  Amsterdam  he 
studied  Dutch,  which  he  found  "in  sound  the  most  disa 
greeable"  he  remembered  having  heard  except  the  Rus 
sian.  His  wife  was  in  failing  health:  she  died  on  the 
twenty-ninth  of  November,  1835.  Longfellow  travelled 
sadly  to  Heidelberg,  where  he  found  charming  compan 
ionship,  and,  as  he  says  of  the  hero  of  "  Hyperion," 
"buried  himself  in  books,  in  old  dusty  books."  While 
here  his  brother-in-law  and  friend,  George  W.  Pierce,  died. 

"  He  the  young  and  strong  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life." 

In  these  sorrows  his  "  higher  and  nobler  motive  of  action  " 
which  enabled  him  for  the  moment  to  forget  what  he 
called  "the  tooth  of  the  destroyer,"  was,  as  he  wrote  to 
his  friend  Greene,  "  the  love  of  what  is  intellectual  and 
beautiful;  the  love  of  literature;  the  love  of  high  con. 
verse  with  the  minds  of  the  great  and  good."  Dur 
ing  this  time  he  translated  Salis's  "Song  of  the  Silent 
Land."  At  the  end  of  the  following  June,  Longfellow 


XXIV       HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

left  the  nightingales  of  the  Neckar  and  made  a  pleasant 
tour  through  Switzerland.  Many  of  his  experiences  he 
wove  into  "Hyperion,"  which  shows  also  the  influence 
of  Richter.  His  philosophy  after  all  was  not  able  wholly 
to  take  to  heart  the  inscription  to  the  high-noble-born 
Herr  Tinzen  Kayetan  von  Sonnenberg: 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past;  it  comes  not  back 
again;  wisely  improve  the  present,  it  is  thine;  go  forth 
to  meet  the  shadowy  Future  without  fear  and  with  a  manly 
heart."  He  wrote  in  his  note-book:  "  Oh,  what  a  soli 
tary,  lonely  being  I  am!  Every  hour  my  heart  aches." 
Chillon  he  found  the  most  delightful  prison  he  was  ever 
in,  and  thought  Byron's  description  overcharged.  The 
Alps  he  characteristically  called  "  great  apostles  of  nature, 
whose  sermons  are  avalanches  and  whose  voice  is  that  of 
one  crying  in  the  wilderness."  From  Geneva  he  went 
with  the  Motleys  of  Boston  to  Interlaken,  where  they 
found  the  Appletons  established.  This  was  a  memorable 
period,  fraught  with  weighty  consequences.  The  young 
ladies  of  the  family  were  very  beautiful  and  intellectual. 
He  wrote  in  his  diary : 

"Since  I  have  joined  these  two  families  from  America, 
the  time  passes  pleasantly.  I  now  for  the  first  time  enjoy 
Switzerland." 

At  Zurich,  where  the  party  went,  he  translated  Uhland's 
ballad  "  Hast  du  das  Schloss  gesehen,"  and  wrote  an 
impromptu  on  the  exorbitant  charges  of  the  Hotel  du 
Corbeau : 


Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich, 
'T  is  a  bird  of  omen  ill; 

A  noisy  and  an  unclean  bird 
With  a  very,  very  long  bill. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW    XXV 

In  December,  1836,  Longfellow  took  up  his  residence  at 
Cambridge,  and  prepared  for  the  duties  of  his  professor 
ship  by  laying  our  courses  of  lectures,  making  acquaint 
ances,  and  getting  settled.  Though  he  was  somewhat 
criticised  for  his  fondness  for  colored  coats,  waistcoats, 
and  cravats,  he  soon  won  many  delightful  friends.  He 
wrote  his  father  after  his  first  five  months  of  Cambridge 
life  that  he  spent  at  least  half  his  evenings  in  society  — 
"  it,being  almost  impossible  to  avoid  it." 

His  first  lecture  did  not  begin  till  the  last  of  May.  He 
prepared  a  course  of  twelve  on  the  various  languages  and 
literature  of  northern  and  southern  Europe.  They  were 
a  success  from  the  beginning. 

On  a  beautiful  summer  afternoon  in  1837  the  young 
professor  went  to  call  upon  a  law-student,  who  occupied 
the  south-eastern  chamber  in  the  Vassall  or  Craigie  house, 
on  Brattle  Street.  Longfellow  subsequently  occupied  the 
same  room  and  the  one  adjoining,  tho'  at  first  the  eccen 
tric  Madam  Cragie,  thinking  him  a  student,  declined  to 
take  him  as  a  lodger.  She  changed  her  mind  when  she 
learned  that  he  was  the  author  of  "  Outre-Mer." 

In  this  room,  it  is  said,  he  composed  all  his  poems 
between  1837  and  1845  and  the  romance  of  "  Hyperion." 
The  first  poem  was  the  one  entitled  "  Flowers,"  the  allu 
sion  in  the  first  verse  being  suggested  by  the  German 
Carove.  The  next  was  the  "Psalm  of  Life,"  which  his 
brother  says  was  written  one  bright  summer  morning  on 
the  blank  leaf  of  an  invitation. 

Longfellow's  college  work  consisted  of  one  oral  lecture 
a  week  throughout  the  year,  two  extra  lectures  a  week  on 
belles-lettres  in  the  summer,  and  superintendence  of  the 
four  or  more  subordinate  instructors.  The  translations 
from  Dante  in  the  present  volume  were  taken  from  the 


XX vi    HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

interleaved  copy  which  he  used  for  his  classes  and  which 
he  filled  with  notes. 

Shortly  after  he  wrote  "The  Psalm  of  Life  "  he  thus 
described  his  own  course  of  life : 

"I  live  in  a  great  house  which  looks  like  an  Italian 
villa;  have  two  large  rooms  opening  into  each  other. 
They  were  once  General  Washington's  chambers.  I  break 
fast  at  seven  on  tea  and  toast,  and  dine  at  five  or  six, 
generally  in  Boston.  In  the  evening  I  walk  on  the  Com 
mon  with  Hillard  or  alone;  then  go  back  to  Cambridge 
on  foot.  If  not  very  late,  I  sit  an  hour  with  Felton  or 
Sparks.  For  nearly  two  years  I  have  not  studied  at 
night  save  now  and  then.  Most  of  the  time  am  alone; 
smoke  a  good  deal;  wear  a  broad-brimmed  black  hat, 
black  frock  coat,  a  black  cane.  Molest  no  one.  Dine 
out  frequently.  In  winter  go  much  into  Boston  society. 
The  last  year  have  written  a  great  deal,  enough  to  make 
volumes.  Have  not  read  much.  Have  a  number  of  lit 
erary  plans  and  projects  ...  I  do  not  like  this  sedentary 
life.  I  want  action.  I  want  to  travel.  Am  too  excited, 
too  tumultuous  inwardly." 

The  note  of  discontent  with  his  position  at  Cambridge 
thus  struck  was  characteristic  of  his  letters  and  diary,  all 
the  time  that  he  held  it. 

"I  am  in  despair,"  he  wrote  in  October,  1846,  at  the 
swift  flight  of  time  and  the  utter  impossibility  I  feel 
to  lay  hold  upon  anything  permanent.  All  my  hours 
and  days  go  to  perishable  things.  College  takes  half  the 
time;  and  other  people  with  their  interminable  letters  and 
poems  and  requests  and  demands  take  the  rest.  I  have 
hardly  a  moment  to  think  of  my  own  writings,  and  am 
cheated  of  some  of  the  fairest  hours.  This  is  the  ex 
treme  of  folly;  and  if  I  knew  a  man  far  off  in  some 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW   xxvil 

foreign  land,  doing  as  I  do  here,  I  should  say  he  was 
mad." 

One  of  his  projects  was  to  found  a  literary  newspaper 
either  in  Boston  or  New  Vork,  but  it  never  materialized. 
Occasionally  he  struck  off  a  poem.  "  It  would  seem," 
he  said,  after  finishing  "The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers" 
without  any  effort  of  his  own,  "  It  would  seem  as  if 
tnoughts,  like  children,  have  their  periods  of  gestation, 
and  then  are  born  whether  we  will  or  not." 

In  1839  appeared  "  Hyperion,"  in  two  volumes,  and  a 
little  later,  in  the  autumn,  the  first  volume  of  his  poems 
—  "Voices  of  the  Night."  The  following  year  he  medi 
tated  an  epic  on  the  "  Newport  Round  Tower  "  and  the 
"  Skeleton  in  Armor."  The  mountain  brought  forth  a 
mouse.  He  was,  however,  at  this  time  tormented  with 
dyspepsia,  which  he  confessed  in  his  diary  made  him  list 
less  and  irritable.  He  also  suffered  from  tooth-ache,  and 
wrote  his  father  that  for  three  months  he  had  not  been 
free  from  it  a  day.  He  also  planned  a  history  of  English 
Poetry,  a  volume  of  studies  or  sketches,  after  the  manner 
of  Claude  Lorraine,  a  novel  to  be  entitled  "  Count  Cagli- 
ostro  "  and  an  Epic — the  saga  of  Hakon  Jarl;  but  none 
of  them  was  ever  accomplished.  There  is  an  interesting 
entry  in  his  diary  under  date  December  17,  1839: 
"  News  of  shipwrecks  horrible  on  the  coast.  Twenty 
bodies  washed  ashore  near  Gloucester,  one  lashed  to 
a  piece  of  the  wreck.  There  is  a  reef  called  Norman's 
Woe  where  many  of  these  took  place;  among  others  the 
schooner  Hesperiis  ...  I  must  write  a  ballad  upon 
this." 

About  a  fortnight  later  he  writes:  "I  sat  last  evening 
till  twelve  o'clock  by  my  fire,  smoking,  when  suddenly  it 
came  into  my  mind  to  write  the  Ballad  of  the  Schooner 


XXV111  HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Hesperus,  which  I  accordingly  did.  Then  I  went  to  bed, 
but  could  not  sleep.  New  thoughts  were  running  in  my 
mind,  and  I  got  up  to  add  them  to  the  ballad.  It  was 
three  by  the  clock.  I  then  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep. 
I  feel  pleased  with  the  ballad.  It  hardly  cost  me  an 
effort.  It  did  not  come  into  my  mind  by  lines  but  by 
stanzas." 

The  volume  of  poems  was  a  great  success:  in  three 
weeks,  less  than  fifty  copies  were  left  from  an  edition  of 
nine  hundred;  but  the  publisher  of  "  Hyperion  "  failed,  and 
half  of  the  edition  was  seized  for  debts.  It  was  generally 
well  received  by  the  critics,  though  it  met  with  some  tre 
mendous  attacks.  Longfellow  wrote  that  the  feelings  of 
the  book  were  true,  the  events  of  the  story  mostly  fic 
titious. 

While  lecturing  on  Spanish  literature  the  following 
year,  the  idea  of  "  The  Spanish  Student  "  occurred  to  him, 
and  he  immediately  carried  it  out,  though  he  did  not  pub 
lish  it  for  some  time.  Writing  to  his  father  in  October  he 
says:  "My  pen  has  not  been  very  prolific  of  late;  only 
a  little  poetry  has  trickled  from  it.  There  will  be  a  kind 
of  a  ballad  on  a  blacksmith  in  the  next  Knickerbocker ; 
which  you  may  consider,  if  you  please,  was  a  song  in 
praise  of  your  ancestor  atNewbury."  "  Excelsior,"  which 
deserves  its  popularity  in  spite  of  its  manifest  absurdity, 
was  suggested  by  the  seal  of  the  state  of  New  York,  which 
is  a  shield  with  a  rising  sun  and  the  indefensible  Latin 
motto.  Of  course  the  significance  of  the  poem  is  its  life,  — 
the  ideal  soul,  regardless  of  caution,  and  prudence,  un 
moved  by  affectionate  pleading,  woman's  love,  or  formal 
religion,  strains  for  the  highest  goal,  and,  dying  in  the 
effort,  mounts  to  the  skies. 

Longfellow's  volume  of   "Ballads  and  other   Poems" 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW    xxix 

was  published  in  December,  1841,  and  six  months  later 
he  was  on  his  way  to  Europe  for  the  third  time.  He 
spent  the  summer  at  the  baths  at  Marienbad.  On  his  way 
he  stopped  at  Bruges,  which  inspired  him  to  write  the 
poems  on  the  Belfry.  In  his  diary  under  date  of  May  30 
he  writes:  "The  chimes  seemed  to  be  ringing  incessantly, 
and  the  air  of  repose  and  antiquity  was  delightful.  .  .  . 
O  those  chimes,  those  chimes !  how  deliciously  they  lull 
one  to  sleep !  The  little  bells,  with  their  clear  liquid 
notes,  like  the  voices  of  boys  in  a  choir,  and  the  solemn 
base  of  the  great  bell  tolling  in,  like  the  voice  of  a  friar  ?" 
While  at  Marienbad  he  partially  laid  out  his  plan  for 
his  "  Christus"  drama  which  had  occurred  to  him  suddenly 
some  months  before,  but  which  was  not  completed  till 
1873.  The  only  verse  that  he  wrote  there  was  a  sonnet 
entitled  "Mezzo  Cammin."  It  ends  irregularly  with  an 
Alexandrine  line. 

Half  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let 

The  years  slip  from  me,  and  have  not  fulfilled 

The  aspiration  of  my  youth  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 
Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  nor  the  fret 

Of  restless  passions  that  would  not  be  stilled; 

But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish  yet; 

Tho'  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  see  the  Past 

Lying  beneath  me  with  its  sounds  and  sights,  — 

A  city  in  the  twilight  dim  and  vast, 

With  smoking  roofs,  soft  bells  and  gleaming  lights,  — 

And  hear  above  me  on  the  autumnal  blast 

The  cataract  of  death  far  thundering  from  the  height. 

During  a  brief  stay  in  England  he  visited  Charles  Dick 
ens  for  a  fortnight,  and  had  a  delightful  time,  the  famous 
raven  doing  his  share  of  the  entertainment.  On  his  return 


XXX    HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

to  America  he  published,  in  a  pamphlet  of  thirty  page?  a 
collection  of  poems  on  Slavery,  which  he  wrote  in  pencil 
while  "cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined  "  to  his  berth  by 
stormy  weather  on  the  return  voyage.  His  views  re 
garding  slavery  were  expressed  in  a  letter  to  his  friend, 
George  Lunt,  who  had  criticised  the  poems  as  expressive 
of  a  weary  attitude : 

"I  believe  slavery  to  be  an  unrighteous  institution, 
based  on  the  false  maxim  that  Might  makes  Right. 

"  I  have  great  faith  in  doing  what  is  righteous,  and  fear 
no  evil  consequences. 

"  I  believe  that  every  one  has  a  perfect  right  to  express 
his  opinion  on  the  subject  of  slavery  as  on  every  other 
thing;  that  every  one  ought  so  to  do,  until  the  public 
opinion  of  all  Christendom  shall  penetrate  into  and  change 
the  hearts  of  the  Southerners  on  this  subject. 

"  I  would  have  no  other  interference  than  what  is 
sanctioned  by  law. 

"  I  believe  that  where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way. 
When  the  whole  country  sincerely  wishes  to  get  rid  of 
slavery,  it  will  readily  find  the  means. 

"Let  us,  therefore,  do  all  we  can  to  bring  about  this 
will  in  all  gentleness  and  Christian  charity. 

"  And  God  speed  the  time." 

Of  course  such  an  attitude  was  not  radical  enough  to 
suit  the  abolitionists;  and  Longfellow,  standing  as  it  were 
between  the  two  parties,  was  blamed  by  both.  Yet  Whit- 
tier  wrote  to  him  asking  him  to  accept  a  nomination  to 
Congress  on  the  ticket  of  the  Liberty  party.  "  Our  friends 
think  they  could  throw  for  thee  one  thousand  more  votes 
than  for  any  other  man."  He  declined,  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  not  qualified  for  such  a  position,  and  moreover 
did  not  belong  to  that  party. 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW    xxxi 

In  July,  1843,  Longfellow  was  married  to  Miss  Frances 
Elizabeth  Appleton,  in  whose  company  he  had  enjoyed  so 
much  when  in  Switzerland  six  years  before.  During  their 
wedding  journey  they  visited  Mrs.  Longfellow's  relatives, 
who  lived  in  "  the  old-fashioned  country-seat  "  at  Pittsfield, 
where  stood  "the  old  clock  upon  the  stairs"  suggesting 
its  refrain  of  "Never-Forever."  On  this  journey  they 
passed  through  Springfield;  and  in  company  with  Mr. 
Charles  Sumner  they  visited  the  Arsenal,  where  Mrs.  Long 
fellow  remarked  the  resemblance  of  the  gun-barrels  to  an 
organ,  and  suggested  what  mournful  music  Death  would 
bring  from  them.  "  We  grew  quite  warlike  against  war," 
she  wrote,  "  and  I  urged  H.  to  write  a  peace  poem."  He 
used  her  beautiful  though  not  perfect  comparison  in  the 
poem  entitled  "The  Arsenal  at  Springfield,"  which  grew 
out  of  her  suggestion. 

Shortly  after  their  return  to  Cambridge,  Longfellow 
accepted  a  proposal  to  edit  a  work  on  the  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  Europe.  It  contained  specimens  from  nearly 
four  hundred  poets,  translated  by  various  hands.  Mrs. 
Longfellow  served  as  her  husband's  amanuensis,  as  severe 
trouble  with  his  eyes,  requiring  the  aid  of  an  oculist,  had 
disabled  him.  The  biographical  sketches  were  mainly 
prepared  by  Cornelius  Felton,  who  shared  the  honorarium. 
He  also  purchased  the  old  mansion  where  he  had  roomed 
so  long,  and  which  became  his  home  for  the  rest  of  his 
life. 

In  the  first  fortnight  of  October,  1845,  he  notes  in  his 
diary  the  completion  of  the  poems  "  To  a  Child,"  "To  an 
Old  Danish  Song-book,"  "The  Bridge  Over  the  Charles," 
and  "The  Occultation  of  Orion."  On  the  thirtieth  he 
completed  the  sonnet  "  Hesperus,"  or  as  he  afterwards 
called  it,  "  The  Evening  Star,"  remarked  as  being  the  only 


XXX11     HENR  Y  WADS  WOR TH  L ONGFELL O  W 

love-poem  in  all  Longfellow's  verse.  It  was  composed  in 
"the  rustic  seat  of  the  old  apple-tree."  He  also  notes 
in  his  diary  the  difference  "  between  his  ideal  home-world 
of  poetry  and  the  outer  actual,  tangible  prose  world." 
The  routine  of  teaching  galled  him.  "  When  I  go  out  of 
the  precincts  of  my  study,"  he  wrote,  "  down  the  village 
street  to  college,  how  the  scaffoldings  about  the  palace  of 
song  come  rattling  and  clattering  down." 

Still  it  may  be  doubted  whether  a  state  of  absolute  lei 
sure  would  have  been  more  satisfactory  to  him.  Very 
likely  the  lark  may  say  in  his  heart,  "How  I  would  fly  if 
it  were  not  for  the  air  that  clogs  my  wings!  "  The  fol 
lowing  month  Longfellow  notes  the  coming  into  the  world 
of  his  second  boy  and  his  fourth  volume  of  poems,  "  The 
Belfry  of  Bruges."  A  few  days  later  he  had  begun  his 
"idyl  in  hexameters,"  the  name  of  which  he  was  in  a 
quandary  about:  "  Shall  it  be  '  Gabrielle,'  or  '  Celestine,' 
or  '  Evangeline  '  ?  " 

In  his  diary  he  sets  down  an  impromptu  verse  which 
came  to  him  as  he  lay  awake  at  night  listening  to  the  rain : 

Pleasant  it  is  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  rattling  rain  upon 

the  roof, 
Ceaselessly  falling  through  the  night  from  the  clouds  that 

pass  so  far  aloof; 
Pleasant  it  is  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  village  clock  that 

strikes  the  hour, 
Dropping  its  notes  like  drops  of  rain  from  the  darksome 

belfry  tower. 

Of  an  attack  upon  his  poems  by  the  novelist  Simms,  he 
wrote:  "  I  consider  this  the  most  original  and  inventive 
of  all  his  fictions."  A  "  furious  onslaught,"  by  Margaret 
Fuller,  he  characterizes  as  "a  bilious  attack."  Later  in 
his  diary  we  come  across  mention  of  "  a  delicious  drive," 


HENRY  WADSWORTPI  LONGFELLOW   xxxiii 

through  Brookline,  by  the  church  and  "the  green  lane," 
where  was  laid  the  scene  of  the  poem,  "  A  Gleam  of  Sun 
shine,"  and  "a  delicious  drive"  through  Maiden  and 
Lynn  to  Marblehead  to  the  "  Devereaux  Farm,  near  the 
sea-side,"  which  gave  rise  to  "The  Fire  of  Drift-wood." 
The  following  year  (1847)  was  marked  by  the  completion 
and  publication  of  "  Evangeline,"  a  story  which  the  rector 
of  a  South  Boston  church  had  vainly  tried  to  induce  Haw 
thorne  to  take  up.  Longfellow  at  dinner  with  the  two 
said  to  Hawthorne,  "  If  you  really  do  not  want  this  inci 
dent  for  a  tale,  let  me  have  it  for  a  poem."  It  is  inter 
esting  to  know  that  he  had  never  visited  the  region  of 
Grand-Pre.  The  meter  of  the  poem  brought  upon  him 
much  criticism,  and  the  question  is  not  yet  settled  whether 
the  so-called  classic  hexameter  can  be  naturalized  in  Eng 
lish.  There  are  lines  in  "Evangeline  "  which  prove  that 
it  can,  as  for  instance : 

"  Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance." 

There  are  others  (as  in  all  long  poems),  which  show 
faulty  workmanship.  But  compare  the  song  of  the 
Mocking-bird  (II.  2)  with  the  same  translated  by  the 
poet  as  an  experiment  into  what  he  calls  "  the  common 
rhymed  English  pentameter."  Here  are  the  two  passages, 
and  no  critic  could  hesitate  where  to  award  the  palm  of 
superiority : 

Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  wildest 

of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the  water, 
Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious  music, 
That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed 

silent  to  listen. 


xxxi  V      HENR  Y  WA  DS  WOR  TH  L  O  JVC  FELL  O  W 

Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad;  then  soaring  to 
madness 

Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied  Bac 
chantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamenta* 
tion; 

Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad  in 
derision, 

As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the  tree- 
tops 

Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on  the 
branches. 

Upon  a  spray  that  overhung  the  stream, 
The  mocking-bird,  awaking  from  his  dream, 
Poured  such  delirious  music  from  his  throat 
That  all  the  air  seemed  listening  to  his  note. 
Plaintive,  at  first,  the  song  began,  and  slow, 
It  breathed  of  sadness,  and  of  pain  and  woe; 
Then,  gathering  all  his  notes,  abroad  he  flung 
The  multitudinous  music  from  his  tongue, 
As  after  showers,  a  sudden  gust  again 
Upon  the  leaves  shakes  down  the  rattling  rain. 

He  notes  in  his  diary  some  pendants  to  Schiller's  poetic 
characterization  of  the  classic  meters : 


In  Hexameter  plunges  the  headlong  cataract  downward; 
In  Pentameter  up  whirls  the  eddying  mist. 


II. 

In  Hexameter  rolls  sonorous  the  peal  of  the  organ; 
In  Pentameter  soft  rises  the  chant  of  the  choir. 


In  Hexameter  gallops  delighted  a  beggar  on  horseback; 
In  Pentameter  whack  !  tumbles  he  off  his  steed. 


HENR  Y  WADS  IVOR  777  L  ONGFELL  O  W    XXXV 


IV. 

In  Hexameter  sings  serenely  a  Harvard  professor; 
In  Pentameter  him  damns  censorious  Poe. 

The  day  after  this  exercise  he  enters  a  little  French  poem 
which  he  calls  the  epigram  of  a  former  young  man  on 
approaching  his  fortieth  birthday: 

"  Sous  le  firmament 

Tout  rf  est  que  change 'in ent, 

Tout  passe" 
Le  cantique  le  </!?'/, 
//  est  ainsi  ecrif, 
II  est  sans  contredit^ 

To  lit  passe. 

O  douce  vie  humaine  ! 

O  temps  qui  nous  entraine  ! 

Destinee  souverame  ! 
Moi  qui,  poete  reveur, 
Ne  fut  jamaisfriseur^ 
Je  frise^  —  O  quelle  horreur  ! 

La  quarantaine  ! 

On  the  occasion  of  the  completion  of  "The  Conquest  of 
Peru  ' '  Prescott  invited  Longfellow  and  a  number  of  other 
authors;  and  some  one,  probably  Longfellow  himself, 
declared  that  nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  than  to 
invite  the  Inkers  on  such  an  occasion. 

Occasionally  Longfellow  made  a  poetic  entry  in  his 
diary. 

Such  is  the  blank-verse  description  of  the  tides  composed 
one  day  during  his  August  vacation  while  at  Portland  : 

Oh  faithful,  indefatigable  tides, 
That  evermore  upon  God's  errands  go,  — 
Now  seaward  bearing  tidings  of  the  land, 
Now  landward  bearing  tidings  of  the  sea,  — 


XXXvi   HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

And  filling  every  frith  and  estuary, 

Each  arm  of  the  great  sea,  each  little  creek, 

Each  thread  and  filament  of  water-courses, 

Full  with  your  ministrations  of  delight ! 

Under  the  rafters  of  this  wooden  bridge 

I  see  you  come  and  go;   sometimes  in  haste 

To  reach  your  journey's  end,  which,  being  done, 

With  feet  unrested  ye  return  again 

And  recommence  the  never-ending  task; 

Patient,  whatever  burdens  ye  may  bear, 

And  fretted  only  by  the  impeding  rocks." 

At  first  there  was  some  delay  in  getting  "  Evangeline  " 
published,  but  at  last,  towards  the  end  of  October,  it  came 
out;  and  he  records  that  he  had  received  "  greater  and 
warmer  commendations  than  on  any  previous  volume. 
The  public  takes  more  kindly  to  Hexameters  than  I 
could  have  imagined."  In  six  months  six  thousand  copies 
were  sold. 

In  February,  1848,  he  chronicles  this  horrible  pun: 
"What  is  tfz^z-ography?  What  biography  ought  to 
be!" 

In  October  he  was  asked  to  write  an  ode  for  the  occa 
sion  of  the  introduction  of  Cochituate  water  into  Boston. 
He  disliked  writing  occasional  verses.  Lowell  was  the 
odist.  Longfellow  contented  himself  with  an  epigram  in 
his  diary  : 

Cochituate  water,  it  is  said,  — 
Tho'  introduced  in  pipes  of  lead, 

Will  not  prove  deleterious; 
But  if  the  stream  of  Helicon 
Thro'  leaden  pipes  be  made  to  run 

The  effect  is  very  serious. 

"  Evangeline  "  was  scarcely  off  his  hands  before  he  began 
his  third  prose  romance,  "Kavanagh;"  but  after  it  was 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW  XXXvii 

finished  he  declared  that  he  had  never  hesitated  so  much 
about  any  of  his  books  except  the  first  hexameters,  "The 
Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper." 

It  was  published  on  the  I2th  of  May,  1849.  Mr. 
Emerson  wrote  that  it  seemed  to  him  the  best  sketch  which 
he  had  as  yet  seen  in  the  direction  of  the  American 
novel.  Hawthorne  called  it  a  "  most  precious  and  rare 
book;  as  fragrant  as  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  as  simple  as 
one  flower.  A  true  picture  of  life,  moreover." 

In  November  he  finished  the  last  proof  corrections  of 
his  "  Fireside  and  Seaside,"  and  confided  to  his  journal 
his  yearning  to  try  a  loftier  strain,  the  sublimer  song, 
whose  broken  melodies  "  had  for  so  many  years  breathed 
through  his  soul  in  the  better  hours  of  life." 

By  October,  1850,  Longfellow  was  so  weary  of  his  rou 
tine  of  his  professorship  that  he  seriously  thought  of 
resigning  it;  more  than  once  he  wrote  that  he  was  "  pawing 
to  get  free  his  hinder  parts."  He  said:  "  If  I  wish  to  do 
anything  in  literature  it  must  be  done  now.  Few  men  have 
written  good  poetry  after  fifty." 

"  The  Golden  Legend  "  was  published  in  1851,  and  the 
first  edition  of  thirty-five  hundred  copies  was  almost  imme 
diately  exhausted. 

His  time  is  shown  by  his  diary  to  have  been  filled  with 
all  sorts  of  calls  and  demands;  some  of  them  most  delight 
ful,  such  as  visits  from  notabilities,  dinners  with  his  fasci 
nating  circle  of  friends,  concerts;  others  not  so  pleasant: 
foreigners  wishing  places  and  help,  requests  for  autographs 
—  one  day  he  mentions  sending  off  twenty-seven,  another, 
seventy-six  —  and  hundreds  of  petty  annoyances,  the  penal 
ties  of  wealth  and  growing  fame. 

On  the  5th  of  June,  1854,  he  mentions  his  delight  at 
the  "  Kalevala."  A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  later  he 


XXX  VI 11   HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

writes  that  he  has  at  last  hit  upon  a  plan  for  a  poem  on  the 
American  Indians;  the  meter  also  immediately  settled 
itself.  At  first  he  thought  of  calling  it  "  Manabozho."  On 
the  26th,  having  looked  over  Schoolcraft's  "  huge,  ill- 
digested  quartos,"  he  wrote  some  of  the  first  lines  of 
"  Hiawatha."  Having  at  last  resigned  from  his  professor 
ship,  he  had  more  leisure  to  work  at  it;  and  though  he 
still  had  interruptions  he  had  finished  the  last  canto  at 
noon  of  March  21,  1855.  A  few  days  later,  pierced 
through  with  pain  from  what  he  calls  the  "  steel  arrows 
of  the  west  wind,"  as  he  lay  in  bed  a  poem  came  into  his 
mind,  —  "A  Memory  of  Portland,  my  Native  Town,  the 
City  by  the  Sea."  As  a  refrain  for  the  poem  he  used  two 
lines  from  an  old  Lapland  song: 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

The  first  edition  of  "  Hiawatha  "  was  five  thousand, 
and  this  was  immediately  followed  by  a  second  of  three 
thousand.  By  the  end  of  two  years  it  had  reached  a  sale 
of  fifty  thousand.  Bayard  Taylor  wrote,  congratulating 
him  on  his  success  in  a  subject  so  beset  with  difficulties. 
"It  will  be  parodied,"  he  wrote,  "perhaps  ridiculed,  in 
many  quarters;  but  it  will  live  after  the  Indian  race  has 
vanished  from  our  continent,  and  there  will  be  no  parodies 
then." 

Parodies  are  implicit  compliments,  and  "Hiawatha" 
enjoyed  this  distinction. 

Of  course,  he  was  immediately  charged  with  having 
borrowed,  not  only  the  meter,  but  the  incidents,  from  the 
"Kalevala."  He  wrote  to  Sumner  that  the  charge  was 
"truly  one  of  the  greatest  literary  outrages"  he  had  ever 


HENRY  WADSIVORTH  LONGFELLOW  XXXIX 

heard  of.  He  added,  "I  can  give  chapter  and  verse  for 
these  legends.  Their  chief  value  is  that  they  are  Indian 
legends.  I  know  the  "  Kalevala "  very  well;  and  that 
some  of  its  legends  resemble  the  Indian  stories  preserved 
by  Schoolcraft  is  very  true.  But  the  idea  of  making  me 
responsible  for  that  is  too  ludicrous." 

In  1856  he  planned  to  go  to  Europe  with  friends,  but 
unfortunately  struck  his  knee  getting  into  a  carriage,  and 
was  laid  up  with  the  resulting  lameness.  It  was  at  the  same 
time  that  his  dear  friend  Sumner  was  suffering  from  the 
brutal  attack  of  Brooks.  So  he  went  to  his  Nahant  house, 
and  enjoyed  the  commotion  of  the  sea,  chafing  and  foaming. 

"  So  from  the  bosom  of  darkness  our  days  come  roaring 

and  gleaming, 

Chafe  and  break  into  foam,  sink  into  darkness  again, 
But  on  the  shores  of  Time  each  leaves  some  trace  of  its 

passage, 
Tho'  the  succeeding  wave  washes  it  out  from  the  sand." 

On  the  second  of  December,  the  following  year,  he 
began  his  Puritan  pastoral,  "The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish,"  which  he  had  before  tried  to  throw  into  the 
form  of  a  drama,  but  without  success.  The  first  edition 
consisted  of  ten  thousand  copies.  He  at  first  called  it 
"Priscilla."  This  same  year  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was 
established  with  Lowell,  Longfellow's  successor  as  Smith 
Professor,  in  the  editorial  chair.  Many  of  Longfellow's 
most  beautiful  poems  appeared  in  it. 

On  the  ninth  of  July,  1861,  Mrs.  Longfellow  was  sitting 
in  the  library  with  her  two  little  girls,  sealing  up  some  small 
packages  of  their  shorn  curls.  A  lighted  match,  fallen  on 
the  floor,  set  her  dress  on  fire.  She  died  the  next  morning 
from  the  effect  of  the  shock,  and  was  buried  three  days 
later,  on  the  anniversary  of  her  marriage  day.  Longfellow 


xl     HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

himself  was  so  severely  burned  that  he  was  unable  to  be 
present  at  the  funeral.  Months  afterwards,  when  some 
visitor  expressed  the  hope  that  he  might  be  enabled  to 
"bear  his  cross"  with  patience,  he  exclaimed,  "  Bear 
the  cross,  yes;  but  what  if  one  is  stretched  upon  it !  " 

Just  as  Bryant  in  his  great  sorrow,  a  similar  sorrow, 
devoted  his  energies  to  translating  Homer,  so  Longfellow 
took  up  the  task  of  translating  Dante,  which  he  had  also 
begun  years  before.  The  first  volume  was  printed  in  time 
to  commemorate  the  sixth  hundredth  anniversary  of  Dante's 
birth.  The  King  of  Italy,  in  token  of  his  high  esteem, 
then  conferred  upon  him  the  diploma  and  cross  of  the 
Order  of  Saints  Maurizio  and  Lazzaro;  but  Longfellow 
declined  the  honor.  Writing  to  Sumner,  he  declared  that 
he  "  did  not  think  it  appropriate  for  a  Republican  and  a 
Protestant  to  receive  a  Catholic  order  of  knighthood."  It 
was  not  completed  till  1866,  though  for  a  time  he  trans 
lated  a  canto  a  day.  Meantime  he  published  (in  1863) 
the  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  which  he  at  first  thought 
to  call  "  Sudbury  Tales."  The  first  edition  was  fifteen 
thousand  copies.  The  characters  represented  as  present  at 
the  Red  Horse  Inn  were  T.  W.  Parsons,  Luigi  Monti,  Pro 
fessor  Treadwell  (of  Harvard),  Ole  Bull,  and  Henry  Ware 
Wales.  The  first  three  were  in  the  habit  of  spending  their 
summers  at  Sudbury,  which  is  about  twenty  miles  from 
Boston.  Longfellow  drew  the  subjects  of  the  tales  from 
various  sources.  "The  birds  of  Killingworth  "  is  sup 
posed  to  be  the  only  one  of  his  own  invention.  The  busi 
ness  of  publishing  the  volume  was  rendered  distressing  by 
the  necessity  of  going  to  Washington  to  bring  back  his 
oldest  son  Charles,  a  lieutenant  of  cavalry  who  had  been 
severely,  though,  it  proved,  not  fatally,  shot  through  both 
shoulders  at  Antietam. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW    xli 

In  February,  1868,  Longfellow  wrote  two  tragedies, — 
one  on  the  persecution  of  the  Quakers,  which  he  had 
written  and  printed  in  rare  form,  and  the  other  on 
the  Salem  witchcraft.  In  May,  with  a  large  circle  of 
family  friends,  he  made  his  'last  visit  to  Europe.  He 
spent  some  time  in  England,  and  at  Eden  Hall  saw  the 
famous  goblet  "still  entirely  unshattered,"  in  spite  of 
Uhland's  poem,  which  he  had  translated  so  many  years 
before.  At  Cambridge  he  was  publicly  admitted  as  Doctor 
of  Laws,  a  degree  which  he  already  bore  by  courtesy  of 
Harvard  University.  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  J.  T.  Fields:  "I 
swooped  down  to  Cambridge,  where  I  had  a  scarlet  gown 
put  on  me,  and  the  students  shouted,  « Three  cheers  for 
the  red  man  of  the  West.'  " 

He  was  invited  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Queen  at 
Windsor  Castle,  and  all  England  vied  in  showering 
attentions  upon  him.  He  wrote  that  he  had  been  almost 
killed  with  kindness,  and  had  seen  almost  everybody  whom 
he  most  cared  to  see.  He  travelled  through  France,  and 
spent  the  winter  at  Rome,  where,  among  other  enjoyments, 
he  frequently  heard  Liszt  play  on  his  Chickering  piano 
forte.  Returning  through  Germany  and  Switzerland,  he 
stayed  long  enough  in  England  to  receive  the  degree  of 
D.C.L.  at  Oxford,  and  to  visit  Devonshire,  the  Scottish 
Lakes,  and  the  regions  sacred  to  Burns.  By  the  first  of 
September,  1869,  he  was  once  more  at  his  desk,  "under 
the  evening  lamp." 

It  would  occupy  too  much  space  to  enumerate  all  the 
names  of  even  the  most  celebrated  of  the  visitors  who 
were  drawn  to  Craigie  House  by  the  fame  of  its  occupant. 
On  one  day  his  diary  records  visits  from  fourteen  people, 
thirteen  of  them  Englishmen.  In  January,  1870,  he  be 
gan  a  second  series  of  the  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn." 


xlii     HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

In  May  he  prepared  a  supplement  to  the  "  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Europe."  In  November  he  was  writing  "The  Divine 
Tragedy,"  which  had  taken  entire  possession  of  him.  It 
was  published  in  December,  1871.  "  Judas  Maccabasus," 
which  had  occurred  to  him  as  a  possible  subject  twenty 
years  before,  was  written  in  eleven  days.  The  next  year 
came  "  Michel  Angelo,"  completed  in  sixteen  days,  though 
constantly  changed  and  enlarged  and  left  unpublished. 
"Aftermath,"  containing  the  third  of  the  Sudbury  days, 
and  a  number  of  lyrics,  came  out  in  1873.  The  following 
January  he  finished  "The  Hanging  of  the  Crane,"  for 
which  the  New  York  Ledger  paid  him  $3,000;  it  was  after 
wards  included  in  "The  Masque  of  Pandora."  In  July, 
1875,  occurred  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  graduation, 
and  he  wrote  for  the  occasion  his  Morituri  Salutamus. 
In  1877  he  received  $1,000  for  his  "Keramos,"  the  spur 
to  which  may  have  been  given  by  his  memory  of  an  old 
Pottery  which  used  to  stand  near  Deering's  Woods  at 
Portland. 

Just  before  he  reached  his  seventy-second  birthday  he 
called  a  friend's  attention  to  the  mysterious  significant  part 
which  the  number  eighteen  had  played  in  his  life.  "  I 
was  eighteen  years  old  when  I  took  my  college  degree; 
eighteen  years  afterward,  I  was  married  for  the  second 
time;  I  lived  with  my  wife  eighteen  years,  and  it  is  eigh 
teen  years  since  she  died.  .  .  .  And  then,  by  way  of 
parenthesis  or  epicycle,  I  was  eighteen  years  professor  in 
the  college  here,  and  I  have  published  eighteen  separate 
volumes  of  poems." 

During  these  last  years  he  was  engaged  in  preparing  his 
"Poems  of  Places,"  which  he  called  a  "poetic  guide 
book."  More  than  once  the  author  of  this  sketch  saw 
him  at  the  University  Press  superintending  the  proofs. 


HENRY   WADSIVORTH  LONGFELLOW     xliii 

The  last  volume  which  Longfellow  himself  published  was 
"Ultima  Thule,"  which  contained  his  verses  in  memory 
of  Burns.  His  last  verses  were  written  on  the  fifteenth  of 
March,  1882.  They  were  touching  and  significant,  like 
Tennyson's  and  Whittiers: 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  past  again, 

The  past  is  dead  to  your  prayer. 
Out  of  the  shadow  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light;  — 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 

He  had  not  been  very  well  for  some  little  time;  in  fact, 
not  since  "a  strange  and  sudden  seizure"  which  befell 
him  in  July,  1873,  and  which  almost  deprived  him  of  the 
use  of  his  right  hand  and  arm.  On  the  eighteenth  of 
March  he  took  a  chill,  was  seized  with  peritonitis,  and  died 
on  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  the  twenty-fourth. 

In  regard  to  his  work  the  words  which  Motley  quoted 
in  a  letter  to  Longfellow  in  1856  were  appropriate  to  the 
last: 

"  I  heard  a  brother  poet  of  yours,  for  whom  I  hope  you 
have  as  much  regard  as  I  have,  say  the  other  day  that  you 
had  not  only  written  no  line  which  dying  you  would  wish 
to  blot,  but  not  one  which  living  you  had  not  a  right  to  be 
proud  of." 

Pure  as  crystal  are  all  his  works.  His  life  was  likewise 
lofty  and  blameless,  sweet  and  unselfish.  The  greatest 
tribute  came  to  him  from  the  spontaneous  love  of  the  chil 
dren  of  his  native  land.  Next  to  that  the  love  and  admira 
tion  of  his  friends;  and  not  least  the  marble  image  which 
enshrines  his  memory  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 


xliv     HENRY   WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW 

May  this  simple  memorial  be  a  single  leaf  contrib 
uted  by  the  son  of  one  of  his  Brunswick  pupils,  to  whom 
also  more  than  once  he  showed  that  unfailing  courtesy 
which  made  his  life  a  perpetual  benediction. 

NATHAN  UASKELL  DOLE. 


VOICES  OF  THE   NIGHT. 

1839. 


PRELUDE. 

PLEASANT  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between-, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 

Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ;  — 
I 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

A  slumberous  sound,  —  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream,  — 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die. 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 

The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 
When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 


PRELUDE. 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild  ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow ; 

O,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar  ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again ; 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !  Stay,  O  stay ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say :  — 
"  It  cannot  be  !     They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 

"  The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs  ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

"  Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sound  ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein, 


PRELUDE. 

Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin,  — 
Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

"  Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ' 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT, 


oTcia,  noTVia  vvf  , 


*Epe/360ei>  I6i'  /u.6Ae  /noAe  KaTaTrrep 

'Ayafj-f/j-vofiov  enl  SO/JLOV 

VTTO  "yap  aA'yetoi',  VTTO  re  ar'/u.</>opas 


EURIPIDES. 
HYMN   TO   THE   NIGHT. 


I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  - 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 


A   PSALM  OF  LIFE.  / 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!  Peace!  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A  PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

WHAT    THE    HEART  OF    THE   YOUNG    MAN    SAID    TO 
THE    PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! " 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,1' 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Finds  us  farther  than  to-day. 


VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  I 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  : 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE   REAPER   AND    THE   FLOWERS. 


THE   REAPER   AND   THE   FLOWERS. 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair?"  saith  he, 
**  Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain? 

Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 
I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay/' 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 


10  VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 
The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 

T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE   LIGHT   OF    STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams? 
O  no !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

O  star  of  strength  !  I  see  thee  stand 

And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 
Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 

And  I  am  strong  again. 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS.  II 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 
I  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS    OF   ANGELS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 


12  VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  us  once  more ! 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  me  on  earth  no  more. 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 


FLOWERS.  13 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


FLOWERS. 

SPAKE  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
OneVho  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 

Like  the  burning  stars  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 
In  these  stars  of  earth,  — these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 
Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 


14  VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 


THE  BELEAGUERED    CITY. 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE    BELEAGUERED   CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale" 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 


1 6  VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  D  YING  YEAR.      1 7 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT   MASS    FOR  THE   DYING  YEAR, 

YES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  —  sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing,  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  — pray!" 


1 8  VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ;  — 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heatl^r, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  —  a  king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !  O,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith,  - 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughters  breath,  — • 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me  ! " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 


MIDA'IGHTMASS  FOR  THE  D  YING  YEAR.      1 9 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost ! " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away ! 
Would  the  sins  that  thou  thus  abhorrest, 

O  Soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 
Christe,  eleyson  ! 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college  life, 
and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen.  Some  have  found  their 
way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful.  Others  lead  a  vaga 
bond  and  precarious  existence  in  the  corners  of  newspapers  ;  or 
have  changed  their  names  and  run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes 
beyond  the  sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches,  on  a  similar 
occasion  :  "  I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children  of  mine, 
which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed,  brought  from  their 
wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go 
forth  into  the  world  together  in  a  more  decorous  garb."] 


AN   APRIL   DAY. 

WHEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming  on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 


AUTUMN.  21 

The  softly-warbled  song 

Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide, 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw. 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April  !  —  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 

WITH  what  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year ! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out ; 


22  EARLIER  POEMS. 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned; 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.     The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings, 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
From  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves 


WOODS  IN   WINTER,  2$ 

Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings ; 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 


WOODS    IN   WINTER. 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 


24  EARLIER   POEMS. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd  ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud . 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year,  — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF 
BETHLEHEM. 

AT    THE    CONSECRATION    OF    PULASKl's    BANNER. 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 
And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 


TY/ff  MORA  VIA  N  NUNS  OF  BE  THLEHEM.     2  5 

When  the  clarion's  music  thrills- 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it !  —  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
*          Guard  it !  —  God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     But,  when  night 

Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him  !  —  By  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy  that  endears, 

Spare  him  !  —  he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 

Spare  him  !  —  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 

"  Take  thy  banner!  —  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud ! 


26  EARLIER  POEMS. 


SUNRISE  ON   THE   HILLS. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ;  —  bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 

The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 

Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash,  — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY.  2/ 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through   thick-leaved    branches,    from    the    dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills !  —  No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   POETRY. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 
laughter. 


28  EARLIER^  POEMS. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 

Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 

In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 

And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And  here,  amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 

Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 

Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.     Hence  gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 

Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes,  — 

Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 

The  distant  lake,  fountains,  —  and  mighty  trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 

Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature,  —  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 


BURIAL    OF   THE   MIATATISINK.  2Q 

Js  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 

With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 

To  have  it  round  us,  —  and  her  silver  voice 

Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


BURIAL   OF   THE   MINNISINK. 

ON  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 
Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 
In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 
An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 
By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  \vas  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 


30  EARLIER  POEMS. 

Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 


BURIAL    OF   THE   MINNISINK.  31 

They  buried  the  dark  chief,  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  : 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  —  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


3  2  TRA  NSLA  TIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem,  flourished 
in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He  followed  the  profession 
of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle.  Mariana,  in  his  History  of 
Spain,  makes  honorable  mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at  the 
siege  of  Ucles;  and  speaks  of  him  as  "  a  youth  of  estimable  quali 
ties,  who  in  this  war  gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor.  He  died 
young ;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exercising  his  great  virtues, 
and  exhibiting  to  the  world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was  al 
ready  known  to  fame."  He  was  mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish 
near  Canavete,  in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet,  Conde  de 
Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago,  is  well  known  in  Spanish  history 
and  song.  He  died  in  1476;  according  to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of 
Ucles;  but,  according  to  the  poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was 
his  death  that  called  forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary 
reputation  of  the  younger  Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  histo 
rian,  "Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of  poetic  beau 
ties,  rich  embellishments  of  genius,  and  high  moral  reflections, 
mourned  the  death  of  his  father  as  with  a  funeral  hymn."  This 
praise  is  not  exaggerated.  The  poem  is  a  model  in  its  kind.  Its 
conception  is  solemn  and  beautiful ;  and,  in  accordance  with  it,  the 
style  moves  on  —  calm,  dignified,  and  majestic.] 

COPLAS    DE    MANRIQUE 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

O  LET  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently ! 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQUE.  33 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 

Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 

With  many  sighs  ; 

The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 

We  heed  not,  but  the  past,  —  the  past,  — 

More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that  ?s  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wava. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 


3  4  TRA  NSLA  TIONS. 

There  all  are  equal.     Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves, 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,  —  the  Good  and  Wise, 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
In  life  we  run  the  onward  race, 
And  reach  the  goal ; 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQ_UE.  35 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering  thought 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

Yes,  —  the  glad  messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 
The  shapes  we  chase, 
Amid  a  world  of  treachery ! 
They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 
And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  — chances  strange, 

Disastrous  accidents,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me,  —  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 


36  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah,  where  are  they? 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life  s  first  stage  ; 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 
In  long  array ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a  stain, 
Their  father  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 
How  soo:  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they, 
Of  fickle  heart. 


CO  PL  AS  DE  MANRIQUE.  37 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 
And  where  are  they? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,  — 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  —  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein ; 


38  TRANSLATIONS. 

And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace,  — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power ! 
What  ardor  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within, 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQUE.  39 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 

Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 

Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 
Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 
Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ?     Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragon? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 
And  nodding  plume,  — 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odors  sweet  ? 


40  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 
O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  varipus  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside  ! 

But  O  !  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts,  —  the  stately  walls, 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 

Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold ; 


CO  PL  AS  DE  MANRIQUE.  41 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array,  — 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now?  Alas! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train ! 

But  he  was  mortal ;  and  the  breath, 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,  —  the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all. 

Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride,  — 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 
His  hamlets  green,  and  cities  fair, 
His  mighty  power,  — 


42  TRANSLATIONS. 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died? 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  O  Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave. 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQUE.  43 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, — 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 


44  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade. 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 
As  Virtue's  son,  — 
Roderic  Manrique,  — lie  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 
Spain's  champion ;  . 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy,  — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend  ;  ~—  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief! 

To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a  chief! 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  45 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise : 

What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,  —  his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Firm,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command ; 


46  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

The  faith  of  Constantine  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate ; 

He  fought  the  Moors,  and,  in  their  fall, 

City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A  common  grave ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 

In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 

'T  was  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 

And  fairer  regions,  than  before, 

His  guerdon  were. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE.  47 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  ;  — 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 
His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 
Had  been  cast  down ; 


48  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 
His  sovereign's  crown ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 
Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 
With  sudden  call,  — 

Saying,  *«  Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien ; 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray,  — 
The  closing  scene. 

"  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame, 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 

They  call  thy  name. 

**  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 

Too  terrible  for  man,  —  nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQUE.  49 

".A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 

Has  no  eternity  on  earth,  — 

'T  is  but  a  name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

"The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  —  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  —  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 

"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 

Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 

And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 

Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 

His  standard  rears. 

"And   thou,   brave    knight,    whose    hand    has 

poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

"  Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 


50  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

Depart,  —  thy  hope  is  certainty,  — 
The  third  —  the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess." 

"  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay : 

My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 

And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be,  — 

I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God's  behest. 

"  My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 

Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 

Were  vain,  when  't  is  God's  sovereign  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

"  O  thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 
So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O,  pardon  me  !  " 


CO  PL  AS  DE   MANRIQUE.  5  I 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind ; 
Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 

Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest.1 

1  This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a  great  favorite  in  Spain.  No  less 
than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  running  commentaries,  upon  it  have  been 
published,  no  one  of  which,  however,  possesses  great  poetic  merit. 
That  of  the  Carthusian  monk,  Rodrigo  de  Valdepenas,  is  the  best. 
It  is  known  as  the  Glosa  del  Cartujo.  There  is  also  a  prose  com 
mentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found  in  the  author's 
pocket,  after  his  death  on  the  field  of  battle  :  — 

"  O  World  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed ! 
Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 
Our  happiest  hour'is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 

"  Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief,  , 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 


5  2  TRA  NSLA  TIONS. 


THE   GOOD   SHEPHERD. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF    LOPE    DE   VEGA. 

SHEPHERD  !  that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed  me,  — 

That  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree, 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains : 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  be ; 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 

Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  !  —  thou  who  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
O,  wait !  —  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying,  — 
Wait  for  me  !  —  Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou'rt  waiting  still  for 
me ! 


"  Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

"  Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 
And  weary  hearts ; 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs." 


THE  NATIVE  LAND.  53 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF    LOPE   DE  VEGA. 

LORD,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  —  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there? 
O  strange  delusion  !  —  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet. 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee ! " 
And,  O !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  I  answered  still,  "  To 
morrow." 


THE  NATIVE    LAND. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF    FRANCISCO    DE   ALDANA. 
| 

CLEAR  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye, 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath ; 


5  4  TRA  NSLA  T1ONS. 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 
Beloved  country !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling 
be. 


THE    IMAGE    OF   GOD. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH    OF    FRANCISCO    DE    ALDANA. 

O  LORD  !  that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 
Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  decays ; 
Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 
Celestial  King !     O  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 
Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


THE   CELESTIAL  PILOT.  55 


THE    BROOK. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH. 

LAUGH  of  the  mountain  !  —  lyre  of  bird  and  tree  ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn  ! 

The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 

The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee ! 

Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 

To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 

Than   golden    sands,   that    charm    each  shepherd's 

gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count ! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current ! 
O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 
Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid 

fount ! 


THE   CELESTIAL   PILOT. 

FROM    DANTE.       PURGATORIO,  II. 

AND  now,  behold !  as  at  the  approach  of  morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery  red 
Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor, 


5  6  TRA  NSLA  TIONS. 

Appeared  to  me,  —  may  I  again  behold  it ! 
A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor, 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 
I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 
Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 

While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot, 

He  cried  aloud :  "  Quick,  quick,  and  bow  the  knee! 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands  ! 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  ! 

"  See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores ! 

"  See,   how   he    holds    them,   pointed    straight    to 

heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair ! " 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared, 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 


THE    TERRESTRIAL   PARADISE.  $? 

But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 

Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face ! 

And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

' '  In  exitu  Israel  out  of  Egypt !  " 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice, 

With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE   TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURGATORIO,  XXVIII. 

LONGING  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 

Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 

Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead, 
No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze, 


58  TRANSLATIONS. 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells, 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  y£olus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  entered. 

And  lo !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 

Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little  waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 
Would  seem  to  hsve  within  themselves  some  mix 
ture, 
Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BE  A  TRICE.  59 


BEATRICE. 

FROM   DANTE.      PURGATORIO,    XXX.,   XXXI. 

EVEN  as  the  Blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh. 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying  ;  "  Benedictus  qui  venis" 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
"  Manibus  o  date  lilia  plenis" 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 

And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors, 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 

Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown  up. 

And  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle, 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 


60  TRANSLATIONS. 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene'er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes, 
Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire, 

Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  forever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 

But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 

Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 

"  O  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume  him?  " 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish, 
Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my  breast. 


Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a  feeble  "  Yes  !  "  out  of  my  mouth, 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  't  is  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow, 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark ; 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 

Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 

And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


SPRING.  6 1 


SPRING. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF   CHARLES    D'ORLE*ANS. 

XV.    CENTURY. 

GENTLE  Spring!  — in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  —  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
•When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


62  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


THE   CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

SWEET  babe !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom,  that  thy  lips  have  pressed ! 

Sleep,  little  one ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mothers  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed ;  he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy  !  —  I  tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought !  —  Unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose ! 

Sweet  error !  —  he  but  slept,  —  I  breathe  again  ;  — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile ! 

O !  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


THE   GRAVE.  63 


THE   GRAVE. 

FROM    THE    ANGLO-SAXON. 

FOR  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered. 
It  is  unhigh  and  low ; 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within ; 


64  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee 
And  descend  after  thea, 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING   CHRISTIAN. 
A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   DENMARK. 

FROM   THE   DANISH    OF   JOHANNES  EVALD. 

KING  CHRISTIAN  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  past ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 


KING   CHRISTIAN.  65 

"  Fly !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 
The  stroke?" 


Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour !  " 
"  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power  ? " 


North  Sea !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 

From  Denmark,  thunders  TordenskioP, 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly ! 


Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 


66  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

Proudly  as  them  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  ! l 


THE    HAPPIEST   LAND. 
FRAGMENT   OF   A   MODERN    BALLAD. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


THERE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But.  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 


1  Nils  Juel  was  a  celebrated  Danish  Admiral,  and  Peder  Weasel,  a 
Vice-Admiral,  who  for  his  great  prowess  received  the  popular  title  of 
Tordenskiold,  or  Thunder  shield.  In  childhood  he  was  a  tailor's 
apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high  rank  before  the  age  of  twenty-eigfct, 
when  he  was  killed  in  a  duel. 


THE   HAPPIEST  LAND.  <) 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 

And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there.1' 

"Ha!"  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, — 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine ; 
"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

"The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  fingers  on  this  hand  ! " 

"  Hold  your  tongues  !  both  Swabian  and  Saxon  !  " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 


And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend, — 
There  lies  the  happiest  land !  " 


68  TRANSLA  TIONS. 


THE   WAVE. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    TIEDGE, 

"WHITHER,  thou  turbid  wave? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ? " 

"I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin1s  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


THE   DEAD. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    KLOPSTOCK. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All,  all  the  holy  dead, 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near  I 
How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 


THE  BIRD   AND    THE  SHIP.  69 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel, 
Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  overshadowed, 
Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber ! 


THE   BIRD    AND   THE    SHIP. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    MULLER. 

"  THE  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 

Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play ; 
And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

"  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !    Whither,  or  whence. 
With  thy  fluttering  golden  band?"  — 

"  I  greet  thee,  little  bird  !    To  the  wide  sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 


70  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

"  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

"  And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 

With  merry  companions  all."  — 

"I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 
Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 

"  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  bless  them  every  one ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

"  Thus  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know." 


WHITHER?  71 


WHITHER? 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    MULLER. 

I  HEARD  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 

So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave ; 
But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur? 

That  can  no  murmur  be ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


72  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


BEWARE  ! 

FROM   THE  GERMAN. 

I  KNOW  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware !    Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care  ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 

Beware  !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 


SONG    OF   THE  BELL.  73 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN. 

BELL  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by ! 

Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 


74  TRANSLATIONS. 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


THE   CASTLE   BY   THE   SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

"  HAST  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 

In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

"  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?  " 


THE   BLACK  KXIGHT.  /  5 

"The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly. 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 

The  King  and  his  royal  bride? 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 

And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

"Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture. 

A  beauteous  maiden  there? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair?'" 

"  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 

No  maiden  was  bv  their  side  ! '" 


THE    BLACK   KNIGHT. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN   OF    UHLAND. 

T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake ; 
44  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  Spring  shall  break." 


?6  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  Knight, 

"  Sir  Knight!  your  name  and  scutcheon,  say!" 
"  Should  I  speak  it.here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 

I  am  a  Prince  of  mighty  sway  ! " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances ; 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin ; 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 


THE   BLACK  KNIGHT.  77 

From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took ; 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  !  " 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  ; 

' '  O  that  draught  was  very  cool ! " 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 

Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  Woe!  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father! " 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast, 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  !  " 


78  TRANSLATIONS. 


SONG   OF   THE   SILENT   LAND. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN   OF   SALIS. 

INTO  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  O  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning  visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !    The  Future's  pledge  and  band ! 

Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 

Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O  Land !     O  Land ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


* EN  VOL  79 


U  ENVOI. 

YE  voices,  that  arose, 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer!" 


Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 

Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalm ! 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps. 
Amid  the  chills  and  damps 
Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps! 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


PREFACE. 

THERE  is  one  poem  in  this  volume,  in  reference  to 
which  a  few  introductory  remarks  may  be  useful.  It  is 
"The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper,"  from  the  Swedish 
of  Bishop  Tegner;  a  poem  which  enjoys  no  inconsidera 
ble  reputation  in  the  North  of  Europe,  and  for  its  beauty 
and  simplicity  merits  the  attention  of  English  readers.  It 
is  an  Idyl,  descriptive  of  scenes  in  a  Swedish  village;  and 
belongs  to  the  same  class  of  poems,  as  the  "  Luise  "  of 
Voss  and  the  "  Hermann  und  Dorothea  "  of  Gothe.  But 
the  Swedish  Poet  has  been  guided  by  a  surer  taste  than 
his  German  predecessors.  His  tone  is  pure  and  elevated; 
and  he  rarely,  if  ever,  mistakes  what  is  trivial  for  what  is 
simple. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  lingering  about 
rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders  it  a  fit  theme  for  song. 
Almost  primeval  simplicity  reigns  over  that  Northern  land, 
—  almost  primeval  solitude  and  stillness.  You  pass  out 
from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene 
changes  to  a  wild,  woodland  landscape.  Around  you  are 
forests  of  fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches, 
trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy  with  red  and  blue  cones. 
Underfoot  is  a  carpet  of  yellow  leaves;  and  the  air  is  warm 

Si 


82  PREFACE. 

and  balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge  you  cross  a  little  silver 
stream;  and  anon  come  forth  into  a  pleasant  and  sunny 
land  of  farms.  Wooden  fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields. 
Across  the  road  are  gates,  which  are  opened  by  troops  of 
children.  The  peasants  take  off  their  hats  as  you  pass; 
you  sneeze,  and  they  cry,  "God  bless  you."  The  houses 
in  the  villages  and  smaller  towns  are  all  built  of  hewn 
timber,  and  for  the  most  part  painted  red.  The  floors  of 
the  taverns  are  strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs. 
In  many  villages  there  are  no  taverns,  and  the  peasants 
take  turns  in  receiving  travellers.  The  thrifty  housewife 
shows  you  Into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  which  are 
hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the  Bible;  and  brings 
you  her  heavy  silver  spoons,  —  an  heirloom,  —  to  dip  the 
curdled  milk  from  the  pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes  baked 
some  months  before;  or  bread  with  anise-seed  and  cori 
ander  in  it,  or  perhaps  a  little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his  horses 
from  the  plough,  and  harnessed  them  to  your  carriage. 
Solitary  travellers  come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises. 
Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  hanging 
around  their  necks  in  front,  a  leather  wallet,  in  which  they 
carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  bank  notes  of  the  country,  as 
large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet,  also,  groups  of  Dale- 
karlian  peasant  women,  travelling  homeward  or  town-ward 
in  pursuit  of  work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their 
hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hollow 
of  the  foot,  and  soles  of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches,  standing  by  the 
roadside,  each  in  its  own  little  garden  of  Gethsemane.  In 
the  parish  register  great  events  are  doubtless  recorded. 
Some  old  king  was  christened  or  buried  in  that  church;  and 
a.  little  sexton,  with  a  rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal 


PREFACE.  83 

font,  or  the  coffin.  In  the  churchyard  are  a  few  flowers, 
and  much  green  grass;  and  daily  the  shadow  of  the  church 
spire,  with  its  long  tapering  finger,  counts  the  tombs,  rep 
resenting  a  dial-plate  of  human  life,  on  which  the  hours 
and  minutes  are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones  are  flat, 
and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps  sunken,  like  the  roofs  of 
old  houses.  On  some  are  armorial  bearings;  on  others 
only  the  initials  of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a  date,  as  on  the 
roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep  with  their  heads 
to  the  westward.  Each  held  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand 
when  he  died  ;  and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little 
heart-treasures,  and  a  piece  of  money  for  his  last  journey. 
Babes  that  came  lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried  in  the 
arms  of  gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever 
slept  in;  and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead  mother  were  laid 
the  little  garments  of  the  child,  that  lived  and  died  in  her 
bosom.  And  over  this  scene  the  village  pastor  looks  from 
his  window  in  the  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his 
heart,  "  How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed!  " 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a  poor-box,  fastened  to 
a  post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by  a  padlock,  with  a 
sloping  wooden  roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday, 
the  peasants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and  con  their  psalm- 
books.  Others  are  coming  down  the  road  with  their  beloved 
pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things  from  beneath  his 
broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and  harvests, 
and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower,  that  went  forth  to  sow. 
He  leads  them  to  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant 
pastures  of  the  spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and, 
like  Melchizedek,  both  priest  and  king,  though  he  has  no 
other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The  women  carry 
psalm-books  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  silk  hankerchiefs, 
and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good  man's  words.  But  the 


84  PREFACE. 

young  men,  like  Gallic,  care  for  none  of  these  things. 
They  are  busy  counting  the  plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the 
peasant  girls,  their  number  being  an  indication  of  the 
wearer's  wealth.  It  may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  will  endeavor  to  describe  a  village  wedding  in  Sweden. 
It  shall  be  in  summer  time,  that  there  may  be  flowers,  and 
in  a  southern  province,  that  the  bride  may  be  fair.  The 
early  song  of  the  lark  and  of  chanticleer  are  mingling  in 
the  clear  morning  air,  and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bride 
groom  with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east,  just  as  our 
earthly  bridegroom  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the  south. 
In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound  of  voices  and  trampling  of 
hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and  saddled.  The  steed 
that  is  to  bear  the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon 
his  forehead,  and  a  garland  of  corn-flowers  around  his 
neck.  Friends  from  the  neighboring  farms  come  riding 
in,  their  blue  cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind;  and  finally 
the  happy  bridegroom,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes 
forth  from  his  chamber;  and  then  to  horse  and  away, 
towards  the  village  where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed  by  some  half- 
dozen  village  musicians.  Next  comes  the  bridegroom  be 
tween  his  two  groomsmen,  and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends 
and  wedding  guests,  half  of  them  perhaps  with  pistols  and 
guns  in  their  hands.  A  kind  of  baggage-wagon  brings  up 
the  rear,  laden  with  food  and  drink  for  these  merry  pil 
grims.  At  the  entrance  of  every  village  stands  a  triumphal 
arch,  adorned  with  flowers  and  ribands  and  evergree.ns; 
and  as  they  pass  beneath  it  the  wedding  guests  fire  a 
salute,  and  the  whole  procession  stops.  And  straight  from 
every  pocket  flies  a  black-jack,  filled  with  punch  or 
brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the 


PREFACE.  85 

crowd;  provisions  are  brought  from  the  wagon,  and  after 
eating  and  drinking  and  hurrahing,  the  procession  moves 
forward  again,  and  at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the 
bride.  Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce  that  a 
knight  and  his  attendants  are  in  the  neighboring  forest, 
and  pray  for  hospitality.  "  How  many  are  you?  "  asks  the 
bride's  father.  "  At  least  three  hundred,"  is  the  answer; 
and  to  this  the  host  replies,  "  Yes;  were  you  seven  times 
as  many,  you  should  all  be  welcome;  and  in  token  thereof 
receive  this  cup."  Whereupon  each  herald  receives  a  can 
of  ale;  and  soon  after  the  whole  jovial  company  comes 
storming  into  the  farmer's  yard,  and,  riding  round  the  May 
pole,  which  stands  in  the  centre,  alights  amid  a  grand 
salute  and  flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  upon  her  head 
and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin  Mary  in  old  church 
paintings.  She  is  dressed  in  a  red  bodice  and  kirtle,  with 
loose  linen  sleeves.  There  is  a  gilded  belt  around  her 
waist;  and  around  her  neck  strings  of  golden  beads,  and 
a  golden  chain.  On  the  crown  rests  a  wreath  of  wild 
roses,  and  below  it  another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her 
shoulders  falls  her  flaxen  hair;  and  her  blue  innocent 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  O  thou  good  soul !  thou 
hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft  heart !  Thou  art  poor.  The 
very  ornaments  thou  wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have 
been  hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou  rich;  rich  in 
health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first,  young,  fervent  love. 
The  blessing  of  heaven  be  upon  thee !  So  thinks  the 
parish  priest,  as  he  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride 
and  bridegroom,  saying  in  deep,  solemn  tones,  —  "I  give 
thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  in  all 
honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key, 
and  every  third  penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may 


86  PREFACE. 

inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland's  laws  provide, 
and  the  holy  king  Erik  gave." 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits  between 
the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The  Spokesman  delivers 
an  oration  after  the  ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He 
interlards  it  well  with  quotations  from  the  Bible,  and  in 
vites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at  this  marriage  feast,  as 
he  was  at  the  marriage  feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  The 
table  is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a  long  arm, 
and  the  feast  goes  cheerly  on.  Punch  and  brandy  pass 
round  between  the  courses,  and  here  and  there  a  pipe  is 
smoked,  while  waiting  for  the  next  dish.  They  sit  long 
at  table;  but,  as  all  things  must  have  an  end,  so  must  a 
Swedish  dinner.  Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off 
by  the  bride  and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn  minuet 
together.  Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the  last  dance. 
The  girls  form  a  ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her  from 
the  hands  of  the  married  women,  who  endeavor  to  break 
through  the  magic  circle,  and  seize  their  new  sister.  After 
long  struggling  they  succeed;  and  the  crown  is  taken  from 
her  head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and  her  bodice  is 
unlaced,  and  her  kirtle  taken  off,  and  like  a  vestal  virgin, 
clad  all  in  white,  she  goes,  but  it  is  to  her  marriage  cham 
ber,  not  to  her  grave;  and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her 
with  lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a  village 
bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  suddenly  changing  seasons  of  the 
Northern  clime.  There  is  no  long  and  lingering  spring, 
unfolding  leaf  and  blossom  one  by  one; — no  long  and 
lingering  autumn,  pompous  with  many-colored  leaves  and 
the  glow  of  Indian  summers.  But  winter  and  summer  are 
wonderful,  and  pass  into  each  other.  The  quail  has 
hardly  ceased  piping  in  the  corn,  when  winter  from  the 


PREFACE.  S/ 

folds  of  trailing  clouds  sows  broadcast  over  the  land  snow, 
icicles,  and  rattling  hail.  The  days  wane  apace.  Ere  long 
the  sun  hardly  rises  above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at 
all.  The  moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the  day;  only, 
at  noon,  they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in  the  southern  sky 
a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns  along  the  horizon, 
and  then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly  under  the  silver  moon, 
and  under  the  silent,  solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel  shoes  of 
the  skaters  on  the  frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound 
of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to  burn,  faintly  at 
first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea. 
Then  a  soft  crimson  glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is  a 
blush  on  the  cheek  of  night.  The  colors  come  and  go, 
and  change  from  crimson  to  gold,  from  gold  to  crimson. 
The  snow  is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the 
zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery  sword;  and  a  broad 
band  passes  athwart  the  heavens,  like  a  summer  sunset. 
Soft  purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through 
their  vapory  folds  the  winking  stars  shine  white  as  silver. 
With  such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry  Christmas  ushered  in, 
though  only  a  single  star  heralded  the  first  Christmas. 
And  in  memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants  dance  on 
straw,  and  the  peasant  girls  throw  straws  at  the  timbered 
roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a  crack 
shall  a  groomsman  come  to  their  wedding.  Merry  Christ 
mas  indeed  !  For  pious  souls  there  shall  be  church  songs  and 
sermons,  but  for  Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and  nut-brown 
ale  in  wooden  bowls,  and  the  great  Yulecake  crowned 
with  a  cheese,  and  garlanded  with  apples,  and  upholding 
a  three-armed  candle-stick  over  the  Christmas  feast.  They 
may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons  Lundsbracka,  and  Lunkenfus, 
and  the  great  Riddar  Finke  of  Pingsdaga.1 
1  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


88  PREFACE. 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  mid-summer,  full  of  blossoms 
and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is  come  !  Saint  John  has 
taken  the  flowers  and  festival  of  heathen  Balder;  and  in 
every  village  there  is  a  May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with 
wreaths  and  roses  and  ribands  streaming  in  the  wind,  and 
a  noisy  weathercock  on  top,  to  tell  the  village  whence  the 
wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does  not  set 
till  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  the  children  are  at  play  in 
the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  windows  and  doors  are  all 
open,  and  you  may  sit  and  read  till  midnight  without  a 
candle.  O  how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night,  which  is 
not  night,  but  a  sunless  yet  unclouded  day,  descending 
upon  earth  with  dews,  and  shadows,  and  refreshing  cool 
ness  !  How  beautiful  the  long,  mild  twilight,  which  like 
a  silver  clasp  unites  to-day  with  yesterday  !  How  beauti 
ful  the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and  Evening  thus  sit 
together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the  starless  sky  of  mid 
night.  From  the  church-tower  in  the  public  square  the 
bell  tolls  the  hour,  with  a'  soft,  musical  chime,  and  the 
watchman,  whose  watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a  blast 
in  his  horn,  for  each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times, 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous  voice  he 
chaunts,  — 

"  Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  !  " 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see  the  sun 
all  night  long;  and  farther  north  the  priest  stands  at  his 
door  in  the  warm  midnight,  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a 
common  burning  glass. 


PREFACE.  89 

I  trust  that  these  remarks  will  not  be  deemed  irrelevant 
to  the  poem,  but  will  lead  to  a  clearer  understanding  of  it. 
The  translation  is  literal,  perhaps  to  a  fault.  In  no  in 
stance  have  I  done  the  author  a  wrong,  by  introducing 
into  his  work  any  supposed  improvements  or  embellish 
ments  of  my  own.  I  have  preserved  even  the  measure^ 
that  inexorable  hexameter,  in  which,  it  must  be  confessed, 
the  motions  of  the  English  Muse  are  not  unlike  those  of  a 
prisoner  dancing  to  the  music  of  his  chains;  and  perhaps, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  the  dancing  dog,  "  the  wonder  is 
not  that  she  should  do  it  so  well,  but  that  she  should  do 
it  at  all." 

Esaias  Tegner,  the  author  of  this  poem,  was  born  in 
the  parish  of  By  in  Warmland,  in  the  year  1782.  In  1799 
he  entered  the  University  of  Lund,  as  a  student;  and  in 
1812  was  appointed  Professor  of  Greek  in  that  institution. 
In  1824  he  became  Bishop  of  Wexio,  which  orifice  he  still 
holds.  He  stands  first  among  all  the  poets  of  Sweden, 
living  or  dead.  His  principal  work  is  Frithiofs  Saga;  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  poems  of  the  age.  This  modern 
Scald  has  written  his  name  in  immortal  runes.  He  is  the, 
glory  and  boast  of  Sweden;  a  prophet,  honored  in  his  own 
country,  and  adding  one  more  to  the  list  of  great  names 
that  adorn  her  history. 

1841. 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER    POEMS. 
1841. 


THE   SKELETON   IN   ARMOR. 

[THE  following  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while  riding  on  the 
sea-shore  at  Newport.  A  year  or  two  previous  a  skeleton  had 
been  dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armor ; 
and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting  it  with  the  Round 
Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  hitherto  as  the  Old  Wind- 
Mill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a  work  of  their  early 
ancestors.  Professor  Rafn.  in  the  Memoires  de  la  Societe  Royalc 
des  Antiquaires  du  Nord  for  1838-1839,  says  :  — 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the  style  in  which 
the  more  ancient  stone  edifices  of  the  North  were  constructed, 
the  style  which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante-Gothic  architec 
ture,  and  which,  especially  after  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  dif 
fused  itself  from  Italy  over  the  whole  of  the  West  and  North  of 
Europe,  where  it  continued  to  predominate  until  the  close  of 
the  1 2th  century;  that  style,  which  some  authors  have,  from 
one  of  its  most  striking  characteristics,  called  the  round  arch 
style,  the  same  which  in  England  is  denominated  Saxon  and 
sometimes  Norman  architecture. 

"  On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there  are  no  ornaments 
remaining,  which  might  possibly  have  served  to  guide  us  in 


92         HALL  ADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

assigning  the  probable  date  of  its  erection.  That  no  vestige 
whatever  is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any  approximation  to 
it,  is  indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than  of  a  later  period.  From 
such  characteristics  as  remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  form 
any  other  inference  than  one,  in  which  I  am  persuaded  that  all, 
who  are  familiar  with  Old-Northern  architecture,  will  concur, 

THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A  PERIOD  DE 
CIDEDLY  NOT  LATER  THAN  THE  I2TH  CENTURY.  This  re 
mark  applies,  of  course,  to  the  original  building  only,  and  not 
to  the  alterations  that  it  subsequently  receives  ;  for  there  are 
several  such  alterations  in  the  upper  part  of  the  building  which 
cannot  be  mistaken,  and  which  were  most  likely  occasioned  by 
its  being  adapted  in  modern  times  to  various  uses,  for  example 
as  the  substructure  of  a  wind-mill,  and  latterly  as  a  hay  maga 
zine.  To  the  same  times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the  fire 
place,  and  the  apertures  made  above  the  columns.  That  this 
building  could  not  have  been  erected  for  a  wind-mill  is  what 
an  architect  will  easily  discern." 

I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  point.  It  is  suffi 
ciently  well  established  for  the  purpose  of  a  ballad;  though 
doubtless  many  an  honest  citizen  of  Newport,  who  has  passed 
his  days  within  sight  of  the  Round  Tower,  will  be  ready  to 
exclaim  with  Sancho,  "  God  bless  me !  did  I  not  warn  you  to 
have  a  care  of  what  you  were  doing,  for  that  it  was  nothing  but 
a  wind-mill ;  and  nobody  could  mistake  it,  but  one  who  had  the 
like  in  his  head."] 


•'  SPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 


THE  SKELETOX  IN  ARMOR-  93 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December : 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

••  I  was  a  Viking  old ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold. 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told. 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse. 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse : 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon : 
And.  with  my  skates  fast-bound. 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

••  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grizzly  bear. 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a  shadow : 


94         BALLADS  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolfs  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

.Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  95 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half-afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chaunting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed. 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 
I  was  discarded ! 


96        BALLADS  AND    OTHER   POEMS. 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me,  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  !  — 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water ! 


PHE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore. 

And  when  the  storm  was  o'er. 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes. 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then. 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 


98         BALLADS  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!"*- 

—  Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS. 

IT  was  the  Schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

1  In  Scandinavia  this  is  the  customary  salutation  when  drinking  a 
health.  I  have  slightly  changed  the  orthography  of  the  word,  in 
order  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS.   99 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  !  " 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe* 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  colder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  North-east ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain, 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daught&t. 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale, 

That  ever  wind  did  blow.'1 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 


100        BALLADS  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  "  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

"  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf, 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand, 


THE    WRECK  OF   THE   HESPERUS.       IOI 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  \vaves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  : 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea- weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 


102       BALLADS  AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


THE    LUCK    OF    EDENHALL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

[The  tradition,  upon  which  this  ballad  is  founded,  and  the  "  shards  of 
the  Luck  of  Edenhall,"  still  exist  in  England.  The  goblet  is  in  the 
possession  of  Sir  Christopher  Musgrave,  Bart.,  of  Eden  Hall,  Cum 
berland  ;  and  is  not  so  entirely  shattered,  as  the  ballad  leaves  it.] 

OF  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

"Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking  glass  of  crystal  tall ; 
They  call  it  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord  :  "  This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal !  " 

The  gray-beard  with  trembling  hand  obeys ; 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light, 
"  This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then,  O  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL.  1 03 

'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 
Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly  : 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling!  klang!  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall!" 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild  ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

**  For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right ; 

Kling  !  klang !  —  with  a  harder  blow  than  all 

Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  •' 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 
And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start : 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword : 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall. 
Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone. 
The  gray-beard  in  the  desert  hall, 


104       BALLADS  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

He  seeks  his  Lord's  burnt  skeleton, 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"  The  stone  wall,"  saith  he,  "  doth  fall  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride ; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 


THE   ELECTED    KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  DANISH. 

[The  following  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  ballad  is  from  Nyerup 
and  Rahbek's  Danske  Viser  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  seems  to  refer 
to  the  first  preaching  of  Christianity  in  the  North,  and  to  the  institu 
tion  of  Knight- Errantry.  The  three  maidens  I  suppose  to  be  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity.  The  irregularities  of  the  original  have  been 
carefully  preserved  in  the  translation.] 

SIR  OLUF  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 
Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide, 

But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 
A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 


He  saw  under  the  hillside 

A  Knight  full  well  equipped ; 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT.  1 05 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 

Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 
Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels  ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew. 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew. 


He  wore  before  his  breast 
A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Oluf 's  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm, 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 
And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  cftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down ; 

"  Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,'1  quoth  he, 
"  So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 

"  I  am  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 
I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight.' 


106        BALLADS  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

"  Art  thou  a  Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight ; 
So  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens1  honor  ! " 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 

Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 
The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF 

THE  LORD'S  SUPPER 

FROM    THE    SWEDISH    OF    BISHOP    TEGNER. 


PENTECOST,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.    The  church 

of  the  village 
Gleaming   stood   in  the  morning's  sheen.     On   the 

spire  of  the  belfry, 
Tipped  with  a  vane  of  metal,  the  friendly  flames  of 

the  Spring-sun 
Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apostles 

aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her 

cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and   the 

wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God's-peace !    with 

lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry   on 

balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant   hymn  to 

the  Highest. 
Swept   and   clean   was   the   churchyard.      Adorned 

like  a  leaf-woven  arbor 
107 


108  THE   CHILDREN  OF 

Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate ;  and  within  upon  each 

cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  fragrant  garland,    new   twined  by   the 

hands  of  affection. 
Even   the   dial,  that  stood  on  a  hillock  among  the 

departed, 
(There    full   a   hundred    years   had   it   stood,)    was 

embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith  and 

the  hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birthday  is   crowned   by  children  and 

children's  children, 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and   mute  with  his 

pencil  of  iron 
Marked   on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured   the 

time  and  its  changes, 
While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slumbered 

in  quiet. 
Also  the  church   within  was  adorned,  for  this  was 

the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents'  hope,  and  the  loved- 

ones  of  heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of 

their  baptism. 
Therefore  each    nook   and   corner   was  swept    and 

cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 

Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the  oil- 
painted  benches 
There  stood  the  church  like  a  garden ;  the  Feast  ot 

the  Leafy  Pavilions 1 

1  The  Feast  of  the  Tabernacles;  in  Swedish,  LofhydaoJidgtiden, 
the  Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 


THE  LORD^S  SUPPER.  IOQ 

Saw  we  in  living   presentment.     From    noble  arms 

on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster  of  leaves,  and    the  preacher's 

pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded    once    more   anew,    as    aforetime    the    rod 

before  Aaron. 
Wreathed   thereon  was  the  Bible  with   leaves,    and 

the  dove,  washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a  necklace  of 

wind-flowers. 
But   in   front   of  the   choir,    round    the    altar-piece 

painted  by  Horberg,1 
Crept  a  garland  gigantic ;  and  bright-curling  tresses 

of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  from  out  of  the 

shadowy  leaf- work. 
Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked 

from  the  ceiling, 
And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set  in 

the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already  ;  the  thronging  crowd 

was  assembled 
Far   from    valleys    and    hills,    to    list     to    the    holy 

preaching. 
Hark !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones  from 

the  organ, 
Hover   like    voices    from    God,    aloft     like  invisible 

spirits. 

1  The  peasant-painter  of   Sweden.     He   is  known   chiefly   by   his 
altar-pieces  in  the  village  churches. 


110  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off  from  him 

his  mantle, 
Even  so  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth  ;   and 

with  one  voice 
Chimed   in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem 

immortal 
Of    the    sublime   Wallin,1  of  David's   harp   in   the 

North-land 
Tuned  to   the   choral   of  Luther;  the   song   on  its 

powerful  pinions 
Took    every   living    soul,    and    lifted    it   gently   to 

heaven, 
And  every  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's  face 

upon  Tabor. 
Lo !  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  Reverend 

Teacher. 
Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish ;  a  chris- 

tianly  plainness 
Clothed  from    his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of 

seventy  winters. 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  herald 
ing  angel 

Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a  contem 
plative  grandeur 
Lay  on  his   forehead  as  clear,  as  on  moss-covered 

gravestone  a  sunbeam. 
As    in   his    inspiration   (an    evening    twilight    that 

faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the  day 

of  creation) 

1  A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.     He   is  particularly  re 
markable  for  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  his  psalms. 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  Ill 

Th'   Artist,    the   friend    of  heaven,    imagines    Saint 

John  when  in  Patmos, 
Gray,  with   his   eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed 

then  the  old  man  ; 
Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his 

tresses  of  silver. 
All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were 

numbered. 
But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left 

hand,  the  old  man, 
Nodding    all    hail    and   peace,    disappeared   in  the 

innermost  chancel. 


Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Christian 

service, 
Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  discourse 

from  the  old  man. 
Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of  the 

heart  came, 
Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna   on 

those  in  the  desert. 
Afterwards,    when   all    was    finished,    the    Teacher 

re-entered  the  chancel, 
Followed  therein  by  the  young.     On  the  right  hand 

the  boys  had  their  places, 
Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling  hair  and  cheeks 

rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the  left-hand  of  these,  there  stood  the  tremu 
lous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  morning,  the 

diffident  maidens,  — 


112  THE   CHILDREN  OF 

Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast 
down  on  the  pavement. 

Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  cate 
chism.  In  the  beginning 

Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  faltering 
voice,  but  the  old  man's 

Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and  the 
doctrines  eternal 

Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from 
lips  unpolluted. 

Whene'er  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as  they 
named  the  Redeemer, 

Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  al\ 
courtesied. 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light 
there  among  them, 

And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy,  the  high 
est,  in  few  words, 

Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity 
always  is  simple, 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seize  on  its 
meaning. 

Even  as  the  green-growing  bud  is  unfolded  when 
Springtide  approaches, 

Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  and,  warmed  by  the 
radiant  sunshine, 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  per 
fected  blossom 

Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its  crown 
in  the  breezes, 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salva 
tion, 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  113 

Line    by   line   from    the    soul    of    childhood.      The 

fathers  and  mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  each 

well-worded  answer. 


Now  went  the  old  man   up   to   the  altar ;  —  and 

straightway  transfigured 
(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate 

Teacher. 
Like   the    Lord's    Prophet    sublime,    and    awful    as 

Death  and  as  Judgment 
Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-searcher, 

earthward  descending. 
Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts,  that  to  him 

were  transparent 
Shot   he;    his   voice   was   deep,    was    low   like   the 

thunder  afar  off. 
So   on  a  sudden  transfigured   he   stood   there,    he 

spake  and  he  questioned. 


"This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the 

Apostles  delivered, 
This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I  baptized  you, 

while  still  ye 
Lay    on    your    mothers'    breasts,    and    nearer   the 

portals  of  heaven. 
Slumbering  received   you  then  the  Holy  Church  in 

its  bosom  : 
Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in  its 

radiant  splendor 


ii4  THP:  CHILDREN  OF 

Rains   from  the  heaven  downward  ;  —  to-day  on  the 

threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and   make 

your  election, 
For  she  knows    naught    of    compulsion,    and    only 

conviction  desireth. 
This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point  of 

existence, 
Seed  for  the  coming  days ;    without  revocation  de- 

parteth 
Now   from   your  lips   the   confession ;    Bethink  ye, 

before  ye  make  answer! 
Think  not,  O  think  not   with  guile  to  deceive  the 

questioning  Teacher. 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse  ever  rests  upon 

falsehood. 
Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  Life's  journey ;  the  multitude 

hears  you, 
Brothers  and  sisters  and   parents,  what   dear  upon 

earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness ;  the  Judge 

everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels  in 

waiting  beside  him 
Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire,  upon  tablets 

eternal. 
Thus  then,  —  believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father  who 

this  world  created  ? 
Him    who    redeemed    it,    the    Son,    and   the  Spirit 

where  both  are  united? 
Will   ye   promise   me   here,    (a    holy   promise!)    to 

cherish 


THE   LORD'S  SUPPER.  115 

God   more   than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man 

as  a  brother? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith  by 

your  living, 
Th1  heavenly  faith  of  affection  !  to  hope,  to  forgive., 

and  to  suffer, 
Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and   walk   before 

God  in  uprightness  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and   man  ? " 

—  With  a  clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men  Yes !  and  Yes !  with  lips 

softly-breathing 
Answered   the  maidens  eke.     Then  dissolved  from 

the  brow  of  the  Teacher 
Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he  spake  in 

accents  more  gentle, 
Soft  as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by  Babylon's 

rivers. 

"  Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all !     To  the  heirdom  of 

heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 
Children   no  more   from  this  day,  but  by  covenant 

brothers  and  sisters  ! 
Yet, — for  what  reason  not  children?    Of  such  is  the 

kingdom  of  heaven. 
Here    upon    earth    an   assemblage   of    children,    in 

heaven  one  Father, 
Ruling  them  all  as  his  household,  — forgiving  in  turn 

and  chastising, 
That   is  of   human   life  a   picture,   as   Scripture  has 

taught  us. 
Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God  !     Upon  purity  and 

upon  virtue 


Il6  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

Resteth  the  Christian  Faith ;    she  herself  from  on 

high  is  descended. 
Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the  sum  of 

the  doctrine, 
Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered  and  died 

on  the  cross  for. 
O !  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's  sacred 

asylum 
Downward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in  Age's 

chill  valley, 
O  !  how  soon  will  ye  come,  —  too  soon  !  —  and  long 

to  turn  backward 
Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined,  where 

Judgment 
Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad  like 

a  mother, 
Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart  was 

forgiven, 
Life  was  a  play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the 

roses  of  heaven ! 
Seventy   years    have   I    lived    already ;     the   Father 

Eternal 
Gave  me  gladness  and  care ;  but  the  loveliest  hours 

of  existence, 
When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I  have 

instantly  known  them, 
Known  them  all  again  ;  —  they  were  my  childhood's 

acquaintance. 
Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in   the 

paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised   to  heaven,  and  Inno 
cence,  bride  of  man's  childhood. 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  1 1/ 

Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a  guest  from  the  world 

of  the  blessed, 
Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily ;  on  life's  roaring 

billows 
Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in  the 

ship  she  is  sleeping. 
Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ;  in 

the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto   her ;  she  herself 

knoweth 

Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  :  but  follows  faith 
ful  and  humble, 
Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend;  O  do  not 

reject  her, 
For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth  the  keys 

of  the  heavens.  — 

Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend ;  and  willingly  flyeth  in 
cessant 
'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon  of 

heaven. 
Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile,  the 

Spirit 
Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like  flames 

ever  upward. 
Still  he  recalls  with   emotion  his  father's  manifold 

mansions, 
Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blossomed 

more  freshly  the  flowers, 
Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with  the 

winged  angels. 
Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close;  and 

homesick  for  heaven 


Il8  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

Longs  the  wanderer  again  ;  and  the  Spirit's  longings 

are  worship ; 
Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,   and  its 

tongue  is  entreaty. 
Ah  !  when   the   infinite   burden   of  life   descendeth 

upon  us, 
Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth,  in 

the  graveyard, — 
Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God ;  for  his  sorrowing 

children 
Turns  he  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and  helps 

and  consoles  them. 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  prosper 
ous  with  us, 
Pray    in    fortunate    days,    for    life's   most   beautiful 

Fortune 
Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal's  throne ;  and,  with 

hands  interfolded, 
Praises,    thankful    and    moved,    the   only   giver   of 

blessings. 
Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that  comes 

not  from  Heaven? 
What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor !  that  it  has 

not  received? 
Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  !     The  seraphs 

adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of  him 

who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendant    on  naught,  when  the 

world  he  created. 
Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament  utter- 

eth  his  glory. 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  I IQ 

Races  blossom  and  die,  and   stars   fall   downward 

from  heaven, 
Downward  like  withered  leaves  ;  at  the  last  stroke  of 

midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees  them, 

but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ?     The  wrath  of  the 

judge  is  terrific, 
Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.     When  he 

speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains   leap  like 

the  roebuck. 
Yet,  — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children?     This  awful 

avenger, 
Ah  !  is  a  merciful  God  !     God's  voice  was  not  in  the 

earthquake, 

Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the  whis 
pering  breezes. 
Love  is  the  root  of  creation ;  God's  essence  ;  worlds 

without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children ;  he  made  them  for 

this  purpose  only. 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed  forth 

his  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing,  it 

laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a  flame 

out  of  heaven. 
Quench,  O  quench  not  that  flame  !     It  is  the  breath 

of  your  being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.     Not  father,  nor 

mother 


120  777.fi:    CHILDREN*OF 

Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you ;  for  't  was  that 

you  may  be  happy 
Gave  he  his  only  Son.     When  he  bowed  down  his 

head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ;  the  sacrifice  then  was 

completed. 

Lo  !  then  was  rent  on  a  sudden  the  vail  of  the  tem 
ple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their 

sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of 

each  other 
Th'  answer,  but  dreamed    of  before,  to   creation's 

enigma,  —  Atonement ! 
Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths,  for  Love  is 

Atonement. 
Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  merciful 

Father ; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from  fear, 

but  affection ; 
Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves ;  but  the  heart  that  loveth 

is  willing; 
Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect  is  Love,   and 

Love  only. 
Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest  thou 

likewise  thy  brethren ; 
One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is  Love 

also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on 

his  forehead? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin?     Is  he  not 

sailing 


THE-  LORD'S  SUPPER.  121 

Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he  not 

guided 
By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ?   Why  shouldst  thou 

hate  then  thy  brother? 
Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  !     For  't  is  sweet  to  stammer 

one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language ;  —  on   earth   it  is   called 

Forgiveness ! 
Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown  of 

thorns  round  his  temples? 
Earnestly    prayed   for  his   foes,   for  his  murderers? 

Say,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 
Ah  !  thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise  his 

example, 
Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil  over  his 

failings. 
Guide  the  erring  aright ;  for  the  good,  the  heavenly 

shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back  to 

its  mother. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that 

we  know  it. 
Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God ;  but  Love 

among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !     He  longs,  and  endures,  and 

stands  waiting, 
Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on  his 

eyelids. 
Hope,  —  so  is  called  upon  earth,  his   recompense,  — 

Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to 

heaven,  and  faithful 


122  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

Plunges    her   anchor's    peak    in    the    depths    of   the 

grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but  a  sweet 

play  of  shadows  ! 
Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  wavering 

promise, 
Having  naught  else  but  Hope.     Then  praise  we  our 

Father  in  Heaven, 
Him,  who  has  given  us  more ;  for  to  us  has  Hope 

been  transfigured, 
Groping   no  longer   in  night ;    she  is  Faith,  she  is 

living  assurance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  Hope;  she  is  light,  is  the  eye 

of  affection, 
Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves  their 

visions  in  marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  life ;  and  her  countenance  shines 

like  the  Hebrew's, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God ;  the  heaven  on  its 

stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the  New 

Jerusalem  sinketh 

Splendid  with   portals   twelve  in  golden  vapors  de 
scending. 
There   enraptured  she  wanders,   and   looks   at   the 

figures  majestic, 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them 

all  is  her  homestead. 
Therefore   love  and  believe ;    for  works  will   follow 

spontaneous 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;  the  Right  from  the  Good 

is-  an  offspring, 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  12$ 

Love  in  a  bodily  shape ;  and  Christian  works  are  no 

more  than 
Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  animate 

springtide. 
Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ;  there  stand  and 

bear  witness 
Not  what  they  seemed,  — but  what  they  were  only. 

Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears  their  confession  secure ;  they  are  mute  upon 

earth  until  death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.     Ye  children,  does 

Death  e'er  alarm  you? 
Death    is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he, 

and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.     With  a  kiss  upon  lips  that 

are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and   rocked  in  the 

arms  of  affection, 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  ?fore  the  face 

of  its  father. 
Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I  hear,  —  see   dimly 

his  pinions, 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon  them  ! 

I  fear  not  before  him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.      On 

his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast ;  and  face 

to  face  standing 
Look   I    on   God    as   he   is,   a   sun   unpolluted    by 

vapors ; 
Look  on   the   light  of  the  ages  I  loved,  the  spirits 

majestic, 


124  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

Nobler,  better  than  I ;  they  stand  by  the  throne  all 

transfigured, 
Vested   in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are 

singing  an  anthem, 
Writ   in   the   climate   of    heaven,    in   the   language 

spoken  by  angels. 
You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children   beloved,  he   one 

day  shall  gather, 
Never   forgets   he   the   weary;  —  then   welcome,    ye 

loved  ones,  hereafter ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget  not 

the  promise, 
Wander  from  holiness  onward  to   holiness ;    earth 

shall  ye  heed  not ; 
Earth    is   but   dust    and    heaven   is   light ;    I    have 

pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God   of  the   Universe,  hear   me !    thou  fountain  of 

Love  everlasting, 
Hark  to  the   voice  of  thy  servant !     I  send  up  my 

prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit  of 

all  these, 
Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  !     I  have  loved  them 

all  like  a  father. 
May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I  taught  them 

the  way  of  salvation, 
Faithful,  so   far  as  I  knew  of  thy  word  ;  again  may 

they  know  me, 
Fall  on  their  Teacher's  breast,  and  before  thy  face 

may  I  place  them, 
Pure   as    they   now   are,  but    only  more   tried,  and 

exclaiming  with  gladness, 


THE   LORD'S  SUPPER.  12$ 

Father,    lo  !    I    am    here,  and    the    children,    whom 
thou  hast  given  me  ! " 


Weeping   he  spake  in  these  words ;  and  now  at 

the  beck  of  the  old  man 
Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath  round  the 

altar's  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  consecra 
tion,  and  softly 
With  him   the    children   read;    at   the   close,   with 

tremulous  accents, 
Asked  he  the  peace  of  heaven,  a  benediction  upon 

them. 
Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day ;  the 

following  Sunday 
Was  for  the  young   appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord's 

holy  Supper. 
Sudden,    as    struck    from    the    clouds,    stood    the 

Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 
Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward ; 

while  thoughts  high  and  holy 
Flew  through  the    midst   of  his  soul,  and    his    eyes 

glanced  with  wonderful  brightness. 
"  On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  !  perhaps  I  shall 

rest  in  the  grave-yard  ! 
Some   one   perhaps    of    yourselves,    a    lily    broken 

untimely, 
Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth ;  why  delay  I  ?  the 

hour  is  accomplished. 
Warm  is   the  heart ;  —  I   will  so  !  for  to-day  grows 

the  harvest  of  heaven. 


126  THE    CHILDREN  OF 

What  I  begun  accomplish  I  now ;  for  what  failing 
therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  reverend 
father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new-come 
in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atone 
ment? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I  have 
told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  a  symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement 
a  token, 

'Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by  his 
sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence. 
'T  was  in  the  beginning 

Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it  hangs 
its  crown  o'er  the 

Fall  to  this  day ;  in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall ;  in  the 
Heart  the  Atonement. 

Infinite  is  the  Fall,  the  Atonement  infinite  like 
wise. 

See  !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remembers, 
and  forward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 
wearied  pinions. 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  life 
time  of  mortals. 

Brought  forth  is  sin  full-grown ;  but  Atonement 
sleeps  in  our  bosoms 

Still  as  the  cradled  babe ;  and  dreams  of  heaven 
and  of  angels, 


THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.  12? 

Can  not  awake  to  sensation ;  is  like  the  tones  in  the 

harp's  strings, 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  deliver 
er's  finger. 
Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the  Prince 

of  Atonement, 
Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands  now 

with  eyes  all  resplendent, 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with  Sin 

and  o'ercomes  her. 
Downward  to  earth  he  came  and  transfigured,  thence 

reascended, 
Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still  lives 

in  the  Spirit, 
Loves  and  atones  evermore.     So  long  as  Time  is,  is 

Atonement. 
Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day  her  visible 

token. 
Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  do  not  live.     The  light 

everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  man  is   not,  but  is  born  of -the  eye 

that  has  vision. 
Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart  that  is 

hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined ;   the  intention  alone  of 

amendment 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things,  and 

removes  all 
Sin  and  the   guerdon  of  sin.     Only  Love  with   his 

arms  wide  extended, 
Penitence  weeping  and    praying;  the  Will    that   is 

tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 


128  THE   CHILDREN  OF 

Purified  forth  from  the  flames ;  in  a  word,  mankind 

by  Atonement 

Breaketh  Atonement's  bread,  and  drinketh  Atone 
ment's  wine-cup. 
But  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthy,  with  hate 

in  his  bosom, 
Scoffing  at  men  and  at   God,  is  guilty  of  Christ's 

blessed  body, 
And  the  Redeemer's  blood  !     To  himself  he  eateth 

and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  !     And  from  this,  preserve  us,  thou 

Heavenly  Father ! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 

Atonement?" 
Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  answered 

the  children 
Yes  !  with  deep  sobs  interrupted.     Then  read  he  the 

due  supplications, 
Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed  the 

organ  and  anthem  ; 

O  !  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our  trans 
gressions, 
Hear  us  !  give  us  thy  peace  !  have  mercy,  have  mercy 

upon  us  ! 
Th1   old  man,  with    trembling    hand,  and  heavenly 

pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round 

the  mystical  symbols. 
O!  then  seemed  it  to  me  as  if  God,  with  the  broad 

eye  of  mid-day, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the  trees  in 

the  churchyard 


7777i    LORD'S  SUPPER.  1 29 

Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  the  grass 

on  the  graves  gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children,  (I  noted  it  well ;  I  knew  it)  there 

ran  a 
Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  icy  cold 

members. 
Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the 

green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened   itself,  as   of   old,   before   Stephen ; 

they  saw  there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right  hand 

the  Redeemer. 
Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpstrings,  and 

angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon    to   them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their 

pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task,  and  with  heaven  in 
their  hearts  and  their  faces, 

Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him,  weep 
ing  full  sorely, 

Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  all  of 
them  pressed  he 

Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer,  his 
hands  full  of  blessings, 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent 
tresses. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 


1 3  2  MISCELLANEOUS. 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughters  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing,  — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 


ENDYMION.  133 


ENDYMION. 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unaskt,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep, 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 


1 34  MISCELLANEOUS. 

O,  weary  hearts  !  O,  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accurst  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  !  " 


THE   TWO    LOCKS   OF   HAIR. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    PFIZER. 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 
I  wander  through  the  world ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I  dream,  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 


THE    TWO   LOCKS   OF  HAIR.  135 

I  wake !     Away  that  dream,  —  away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks,  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fair,  — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 
And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


1 36  MISCELLANEOUS. 


IT   IS   NOT   ALWAYS    MAY. 

NO   HAY    PAJAROS    EN    LOS    NIDOS    DE    ANTANO. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new ;  —  the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves ;  — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  O  !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 


GOD'S-ACRE.  137 


THE    RAINY  DAY. 
t 

THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary ; 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and' dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!  and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

I  LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breaths  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

GodVAcre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas !  no  more  their  own. 


1 3  8  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  arch-angel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  perfume 

With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 


With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turnup  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvests  grow ! 


TO   THE   RIVER   CHARLES. 

RIVER  !  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 

In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 


TO    THE   RIVER   CHARLES.  139 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 
I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 


And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because,  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 


Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 


More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 


1 40  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  "been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND   BARTIMEUS. 

BLIND  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 
He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 
Say,  "  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  !  " 
And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 
/ue  ! 


The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  "  He  calleth  thee  !" 
ae  ! 


THE   GOBLET  OF  LIFE.  14! 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands?" 
And  he  replies,  "  O  give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight !" 
And  Jesus  answers, 
H  nlang  crov  (jfVwxe  ae 


Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  Voices  three, 


nctye 
CH  ntdTig  aov  ae'crwx^  as  ! 


THE   GOBLET   OF   LIFE. 

FILLED  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chaunt  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 


No  purple  flowers,  —  no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 


142  MISCELLANEOUS. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 


And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  it  is  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 


Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 


It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 


Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 
New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 


THE   GOBLET  OF  LIFE.  143 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 


The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  —  for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair, 
One  half  the  human  race. 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried ! 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief,  — 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


1 44  MIS  CELL  A  NE  O  US. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar? 


MAIDENHOOD.  14$ 

O,  them  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  \vounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


146  MISCELLANEOUS. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said ; 
"Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  ! " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  \veary  head  upon  this  breast ! " 
A  tear\?tood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  i^e  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
k'xcelsior  ! 


EXCELSIOR.  147 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior  ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior  ! 


POEMS   ON    SLAVERY. 

1842. 


[The  following  poems,  with  one  exception,  were  written  at  sea,  in  the 
latter  part  of  October.  I  had  not  then  heard  of  Dr.  Channing's 
death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  addressed  to  him  is  no  longer 
appropriate.  I  have  decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was 
written,  a  feeble  testimony  of  my  admiration  for  a  great  and  good 
man.] 

TO    WILLIAM    E.  CHANNING. 

THE  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

"  Servant  of  God  !  well  done  ! " 

Well  done  !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

149 


150  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 
Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 

Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 
To  John  in  Patmos,  "  Write  !." 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 
This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse  ! 


THE    SLAVE'S    DREAM. 

BESIDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain-road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 


THE   SLA  VE  'S  DREAM.  1 5  I 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 
And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 


152  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away ! 


THE   GOOD   PART, 

THAT   SHALL    NOT     BE    TAKEN    AWAY. 

SHE  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side, 
In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 

And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 
Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes ; 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside 
And  liberate  the  slave. 


THE   GOOD   PART.  153 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 

When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 
And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 


And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 


Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


154  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY. 


THE   SLAVE    IN   THE   DISMAL   SWAMP. 

IN  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 

The  hunted  Negro  lay ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glow-worms  shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waning  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 

With  songs  of  Liberty. 


THE  SLA  VE  SINGING   A  T  MIDNIGHT.       I  5  5 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth  ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth. 


THE   SLAVE   SINGING   AT   MIDNIGHT. 

LOUD  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  ! 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turris  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 


I $6  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night? 


THE   WITNESSES. 

IN  Ocean's  wide  domains, 
Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 
Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 
No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 


THE    WITNESSES. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses  ! " 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey; 
Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play ! 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves  ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

"  We  are  the  witnesses  ! " 


158  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


THE   QUADROON   GIRL. 

THE  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 

Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 
He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 

And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 

And  all  her  listless  crew 
Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 

Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow ; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  "  My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon." 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 


THE   QUADROON  GIRL.  159 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 

Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 
No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  bright, 

And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 
As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"  The  soil  is  barren,  —  the  farm  is  old  ;  " 

The  thoughtful  Planter  said  ; 
Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains  ; 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land ! 


160  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY. 


THE   WARNING. 

BEWARE  !     The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 

The  lion  in  his  path,  —when,  poor  and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more, 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 

Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 
A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe ; 

The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all, 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in  bonds  of  steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 

A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES, 
AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

1846. 


CARILLON. 

IN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 

Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
161 


1 62  THE   BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling. 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  163 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long ; 

Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 

The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


THE    BELFRY    OF    BRUGES. 

IN  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old 

and  brown ; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches 

o'er  the  town. 


164  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

As  the  summer  morn  was   breaking,  on   that  lofty 

tower  I  stood, 
And   the    world    threw  off   the    darkness,  like    the 

weeds  of  widowhood. 


Thick  with  towns  and   hamlets   studded,  and   with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and  vast 

the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.     From  its  chimneys, 

here  and  there, 
Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  vanished, 

ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early  morning 

hour, 
But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 

tower. 


From   their    nests    beneath    the    rafters    sang    the 

swallows  wild  and  high  ; 
And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed  more 

distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the 

olden  times, 
With    their   strange,    unearthly   changes    rang    the 

melancholy  chimes, 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  165 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the 

nuns  sing  in  the  choir ; 
And   the  great   bell   tolled   among   them,    like    the 

chanting  of  a  friar. 

Visions   of  the   days   departed,  shadowy   phantom, 

filled  my  brain  ; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk  the 

earth  again ; 

All  the    Foresters    of  Flanders, — mighty   Baldwin 

Bras  de  Fer, 
Lyderick    du    Bucq     and    Cressy,    Philip,    Guy    de 

Dampierre. 

I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid,  that  adorned  those 

days  of  old ; 
Stately  dames,   like  queens  attended,   knights  who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold  ; 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with    deep-laden 

argosies ; 
Ministers  §  from   twenty   nations;     more    than   royal 

pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on  the 

ground  ; 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with   her  hawk 

and  hound  : 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a  duke  slept 
with  the  queen, 


1 66  THE   BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the  sword 
unsheathed  between. 

I   beheld   the    Flemish   weavers,    with    Namur   and 

Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of  the 

Spurs  of  Gold ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White  Hoods 

moving  west, 
Saw   great    Artevelde   victorious   scale   the   Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land  with 

terror  smote  ; 
And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the  tocsin's 

throat ; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and 
dike  of  sand, 

"  I  am  Roland!  I  am  Roland!  there  is  victory  in 
the  land ! " 

I 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.  The  awak 
ened  city's  roar 

Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into 
their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes  ;  and,  before 
I  was  aware, 

Lo!  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun-illu 
mined  square. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A   GLEAM   OF   SUNSHINE. 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time-s  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 
167 


1 68  MIS  CELL  A  NE  O  US. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares. 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 


THE   ARSENAL   AT  SPRINGFIELD.       169 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered. 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  !  the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 
Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 

A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE    ARSENAL   AT    SPRINGFIELD. 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys ! 
What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
.  Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 


1 70  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Ciinbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns  ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half   the  wealth,  bestowed   on  camps  and 
courts, 


NUREMBERG.  IJI 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease  ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace  ! 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 

The  blast  of  Wars  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 

IN  the  valley  of   the  Pegnitz,   where  across  broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg,  the 

ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town 

of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng : 


1 7  2  MI SC ELL  A  NE  O  US. 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 
rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  cen 
turies  old  ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in  their 

uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial    city  stretched   its   hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an 

iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  Cuni- 

gunde's  hand ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old  heroic 

days, 
Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous  world 

of  Art : 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in 

the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined  his 

holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age 

to  age  their  trust ; 


NUREMBURG.  1/3 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence   stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the 

painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple,  rev 
erent  heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of 
Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy 

hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the  Better 

Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone  where 

he  lies ; 
Dead  he  is  not,  —  but  departed,  —  for  the  artist  never 

dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient    city,   and    the    sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavements,  that  he  once 

has  breathed'its  air ! 

Through   these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the   Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 

poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to  the 

friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts 

the  swallows  build. 


174  MISCELLANEOUS. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the 

anvil's  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the 

flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the 

loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 

sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now   an  ale-house,  with   a   nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Pusch- 

man's  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-lfke,  with  his  great 

beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart   mechanic  comes  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's 

antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient    splendor,   and    before   my 
dreamy  eye 


THE  NORMAN  BARON.  175 

Wave   these  mingling    shapes   and    figures,    like   a 
faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the 

world's  regard ; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht    Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs, 

thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far 

away, 
As  he  paced   thy  streets   and   court-yards,  sang   in 

thought  his  careless  lay : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret 

of  the  soil, 
The    nobility    of    labor,  —  the    long     pedigree    of 

toil. 


THE   NORMAN   BARON. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme  et 
plus  profonde,  ou  1'interet  et  1'avarice  parlent  moins  haul  que  la 
niison,  dans  les  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et  de 
peril  de  mort,  les  nobles  se  repentirent  de  posseder  des  serfs,  comme 
d'une  chose  peu  agreable  a  Dieu,  qui  avait  cree  tous  les  hommes 
i  son  image. 

THIERRY  :    CONQU^TE  DE  L'ANGLETERRE. 

IN  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 
Was  the  Norman  baron  lying ; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle  turret  shook. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 
From  the  missal  on  his  knee ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that,  from  the  neighboring  kloster, 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits. 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chaunted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 


THE   NORMAN  BARON. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

"  Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger ! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  !  " 


And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere,  Domine  ! " 


In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition, 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 
Every  serf  born  to  their  manor, 
All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures, 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
'He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen !" 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 
Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


RAIN   IN   SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER.  1 79 

Across  the  window  pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets. 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 


180  MISCELLANEOUS. 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil ; 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER.  l8l 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said, 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  wrater-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  :, 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


1 8  2  MISCELLANE  O  US. 


TO    A    CHILD. 

DEAR  child !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee. 

With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery ! 

The  lady,  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 

With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o''er  his  gate, 

Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 

The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 

The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 

Making  a  merry  tune  ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 

That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 

Dashed  it  on  Coromandel's  sand ! 

Those  silver  bells 

Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 

Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 

Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 

Or  Potosfs  o'erhanging  pines  ! 


TO  A    CHILD.  183 

And  thus  for  thee,  O  little  child, 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  the  burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  pirate,  Time. 


But,  lo !  thy  door  is  left  ajar ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mothers  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 


1 84  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 

Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 

Makes  the  old  walls 

Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 

With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 

O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 

No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread ! 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Out,  out  !  into  the  open  air ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 

I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 


TO   A    CHILD.  185 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels  I  trace ; 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm! 

What !  tired  already !  with  those  suppliant  looks, 
And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a  poet's  books, 
Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 
This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  overhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 
Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest, 
From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 
By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 
Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 
A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 
And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep, 
Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

O  child  !     O  ne\v-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city  !  on  thy  head 


1 86  M ISC  ELL  A  NE  O  US. 

The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like  a  celestial  benison ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

I  see  its  valves  expand, 

As  at  the  touch  of  Fate ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark, 

Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears ; 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere 


TO  A    CHILD.  187 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 
A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 
Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 
Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain, 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  opprest, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 

On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 

To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 

To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 


1 88  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 

Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough  !  I  will  not  play  the  Seer ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 
For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old, 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE   OCCULTATION   OF   ORION. 

I  SAW,  as  in  a  dream  sublime, 
The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 
O'er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended ; 
And  day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 
Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 
While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 
In  that  bright  vision  I  beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 


THE   OCCULTATION  OF  ORION.          189 

I  saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 

The  Samian's  great  ^Eolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I  see,  but  hear, 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere. 

From  Dian's  circle  light  and  near, 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows, 

Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 

Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 


Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 
And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 
Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 
And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 
The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 
Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast ! 
His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side. 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint, 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 
As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 
As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 

And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 

She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm  ! 

And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 

Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 

Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 

His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 

The  forehead  of  the  bull  ;  but  he 

Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 

When,  blinded  by  (Enopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 

And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 

Fixed  his  black  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 

An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 

"  Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 

Its  music  on  another's  strings, 


THE  BRIDGE. 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 

Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 

Re-echoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 

"  Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er ! " 


THE   BRIDGE. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon, 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them. 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 


TO    THE  DRIVING   CLOUD.  193 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 

And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 
As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 

And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO   THE    DRIVING    CLOUD. 

GLOOMY  and  dark  art  thou,  O  chief  of  the  mighty 

Omawhaws  ; 
Gloomy  and  dark,  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose  name 

thou  hast  taken  ! 
Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  I  see  thee  stalk  through 

the  city's 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  margin 

of  rivers 


1 94  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Stalked  those  birds   unknown,  that  have  left  us  only 

their  footprints. 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race 

but  the  footprints? 

How  canst  thou  walk  in  these  streets,  who  hast  trod 

the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  ? 
How  canst  thou  breathe  in  this  air,  who  hast  breathed 

the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  ? 
Ah  !  't  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain  thou 

dost  challenge 
Looks  of  dislike  in  return,  and  question  these  walls 

and  these  pavements, 

Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while  down 
trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its 

caverns  that  they,  too, 
Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim  its 

division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west  of 

the  Wabash ! 
There  as  a  monarch   thou  reignest.     In  autumn  the 

leaves  of  the  maple 
Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and  in 

summer 
Pine-trees   waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous 

breath  of  their  branches. 
There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a  tamer  of 

horses ! 
There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks  of 

the  Elk-horn, 


TO    THE   DRIVING   CLOUD.  195 

Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running-Water,  or  where  the 

Omawhaw 
Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like  a 

brave  of  the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark !  what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those 

mountainous  deserts? 
Is4t  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the  mighty 

Behemoth, 
Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the  bolts 

of  the  thunder, 
And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of  the 

red  man? 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  Crows 

and  the  Foxes, 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread  of 

Behemoth, 
Lo !  the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts  the 

Missouri's 
Merciless  current !  and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prairies, 

the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night ;  and  the  cloud  of  dust  in 

the  gray  of  the  daybreak 

Marks  not  the  buffalo's  track,  nor  the  Mandan's  dex 
terous  horse-race ; 
It  is  a  caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell  the 

Camanches  ! 
Ha !  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts,  like 

the  blast  of  the  east-wind, 
Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  of  thy 

wigwams ! 


196  SONGS. 


SONGS. 


SEAWEED. 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main;  * 


SEAWEED.  197 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  ere  long 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


SONGS. 


THE   DAY   IS   DONE. 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY.          199 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

^The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON   IN   FEBRUARY. 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 


2OO  SONGS. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 
The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


TO   AN    OLD    DANISH    SONG-BOOK. 

WELCOME,  my  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 


TO   AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK.      2OI 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 
There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  these  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 
Days  departed,  half- forgotten, 
When  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 
By  the  Baltic,  — 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 
Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 
And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 
Wrote  thy  pages. 


2O2  SONGS. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ;  — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sune  them. 


Thou  hast  been  their  friend ; 
They,  alas  !  have  left  thee  friendless ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 


WALTER    VON  DER    VOGELWEID.      2O3 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  songs  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTER   VON   DER  VOGELWEID. 

VOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 
Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song  ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 
They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 


204  SONGS. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 

Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 
Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 


On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 
Overshadowed  all  the  place, 

On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 
On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 
On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 

They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 
Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 


DRINKING  SONG,  205 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 


Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 
By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 
And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION    FOR    AN    ANTIQUE    PITCHER. 

COME,  old  friend  !  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 
Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 


206  SONGS. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o'erzealous  rigor, 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,  — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 


THE   OLD    CLOCK  ON  THE   STAIRS.      2O/ 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 
And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 

Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 
Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 

In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 

Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus1  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


THE   OLD   CLOCK    ON    THE    STAIRS. 

L'eternite  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans  cesse 
ces  deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux  :  "  Toujours! 
jamais!  Jamais !  toujours!  "  JACQUES  BRIDAINB. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw. 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever — never! 
Never  —  forever !  " 


208  SONGS. 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands. 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  - 
"  Forever —  never! 
Never  —  forever ! " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth f 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 


THE   OLD   CLOCK  ON   THE  STAIRS.      2OQ 

That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
"  Forever —  never! 
Never  —  forever  ! " 


There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed  ; 
O  precious  hours  !     O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever ! '' 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night : 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
"  Forever  —  never! 
Never  —  forever ! " 


All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again?" 
As  in  the  days  long-since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 
"  Forever —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 


210  SONGS. 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 
' '  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 


THE    ARROW  AND   THE   SONG. 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 


I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


AUTUMN.  211 


SONNETS. 


THE   EVENING   STAR. 

Lo  !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 

The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest  1 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 

With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  opprest. 

O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love ! 

My  best  and  gentlest  lady  !  even  thus, 
As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 

And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


AUTUMN. 

THOU  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 

And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 


212  SONNETS. 

Upcn  thy  bridge  of  gold  ;  thy  royal  hand 

Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain. 
Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 

So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging  eaves ; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended ; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 

Thine    almoner,    the    wind,    scatters    the   golden 
leaves !  * 


DANTE. 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume ! 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  *'  Peace  1" 


THE   HEMLOCK   TREE. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE    HEMLOCK   TREE. 

FROM   THE  GERMAN. 

O  HEMLOCK  tree  !     O  hemlock  tree !  how  faithful  are 

thy  branches  ! 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime! 
O  hemlock  tree  !     O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful  are 
thy  branches  ! 

O  maiden  fair !     O  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  is  thy 

bosom ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 
And  leave  me  in  adversity ! 

O  maiden  fair!     O  maiden  fair!  how  faithless  is  thy 
bosom ! 


The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine 

example ! 

So  long  as  summer  lasts  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine 
example! 


2 1 4  TRA  NSLA  TIONS. 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror  of 

thy  falsehood  ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror  of 
thy  falsehood ! 


ANNIE   OF    THARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

ANNIE  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh  and  my  blood ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or  come 

snow, 
We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain, 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains 
fall,  — 


ANNIE   OF   THARAW.  21$ 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and  strong. 
Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  manifold 
wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 

In  a  desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce  known,  — 

Through  forests  I'll  follow,  and  where  the  sea  flows, 
Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies  of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whatever  I  have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth,  and 
one  hand? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife ; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whatever  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen ; 

I  am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its  queen. 

It  is  this,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


2 1 6  TRA  NSL  A  TIONS, 


THE    STATUE   OVER   THE  CATHEDRAL 
DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

FORMS  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

The  cathedral  door  above  ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 

In  his  mantle,  —  wound  about  him, 
As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 

High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild; 
O,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 

I  would  be  like  him,  a  child  ! 

And  mv  songs,  —  green  leaves  and  blossoms,  — 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 

Calling,  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE    LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

ON  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm. 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS.     21  / 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 

Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 
At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 

A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 

With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 
From  the  cross  't  would  free  the  Saviour, 

Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 

"  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 
Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  ! " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  -blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


THE   SEA    HATH    ITS   PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

THE  sea  hath  its  pearls, 
The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 
My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven  ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 


2 1 8  TRAATSLA  TIONS. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 
Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM  THE  SINNGEDICHTE  OF  FRIEDRICH  VON  LOGAU, 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


MONEY. 


WHEREUNTO  is  money  good? 
Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 
Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 


THE   BEST   MEDICINES. 

JOY  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose. 


SIN. 


Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 


POETIC  APHORISMS.  2 19 


POVERTY   AND   BLINDNESS. 

A  blind  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  blind  a  poor  man  is  ; 
For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter  no  man 
sees. 


LAW   OF   LIFE. 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
Ty  my  Prince  faithfully, 
To  my  Neighbor  honestly. 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 


CREEDS. 


Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds  and 

doctrines  three 
Extant  are  ;  but  still  the  doubt  is,  where  Christianity 

may  be. 


THE   RESTLESS   HEART. 

A  millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever 
round ; 

If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must  them 
selves  be  ground. 


220  TRA'NSLA  TIONS. 


CHRISTIAN   LOVE. 

Whilom  Love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth  and  com 
fort  it  bespoke ; 

But,  alas  !  it  now  is  quenched,  and  only  bites  us,  like 
the  smoke. 


ART   AND   TACT. 


Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  combined  ; 
Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  golden  room  we  find. 


RETRIBUTION. 


Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they  grind 

exceeding  small ; 
Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting,  with  exact' 

ness  grinds  he  all. 


TRUTH. 


When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but  a 

torch's  fire, 
Ha !    how  soon  they  all    are   silent !     Thus  Truth 

silences  the  liar. 


POETIC  APHORISM.  221 


RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound  not 

well  in  strangers'  ears, 
They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens  so 

with  theirs  ; 
For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a  fatherland 

their  own, 
They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they  are  best 

and  longest  known. 


222  CURFEW. 


CURFEW. 


i. 

SOLEMNLY,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 

II. 

The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 


CURFEW.  223 


Dim  grow  its  fancies  ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall ; 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all. 


224    ™E   SEASIDE   AND    THE   FIRESIDE. 


THE    SEASIDE   AND   THE 
FIRESIDE. 

1850. 


DEDICATION. 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  hearkens : 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand  fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be  spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history, 


D  ED  1C  A  TION.  22$ 

In  which  we  feei  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  —  and  all  the  rest  is  mystery ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces  ; 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and  sem 
blance  ; 
Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk, 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are  lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest. 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited ! 


226  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


BY  THE   SEASIDE. 


THE    BUILDING   OF   THE   SHIP. 

"  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master ! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  answered,  "  Ere  long  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  staunch, 

As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  !  " 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP.        22*] 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 

That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 

The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 

Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 

Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  Our  ship,  I  wis, 

Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  !  " 


It  was  of  another  form,  indeed  ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 

With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 

That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 

And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 

Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 

Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 


228  BY   THE   SEASIDE. 

In  the  shipyard  stood  the  Master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion 

There's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 

Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 

Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 

That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A  'youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP.        22Q 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again  ;  — 

The  fiery  youth  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand. 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"  Thus,'1  said  he,  **  will  we  build  this  ship ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  UNION  be  her  name ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !  " 

The  Master's  word 
Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 
And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 
With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride, 


230  BY   THE  SEASIDE. 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 

Ah  !  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  shipyards  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 


THE  BUILDING   OF   THE   SHIP.        231 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun. 
And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 
By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chil1, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  tke  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind ! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 


232  BY   THE   SEASIDE. 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dre^.m  ; 
And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 

Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till,  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing. 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  :  — 

"Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master. 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! " 


THE  -BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP.       233 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night. 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place ; 

Shrouds  and  stays 

Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 


234  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

Mid  shout  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

And,  naked  and  bare, 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 

Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 

And  everywhere 
The  slender,  graceful  spars 
Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  at  the  mast  head, 
White,  blue,  and  red, 
A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 
Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 
'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 
Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  end 
less ! 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP,       235 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray,  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 


236  BY   THE  SEASIDE. 

Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 


The  prayer  is  said, 
The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head. 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 
Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 
Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 
And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 
The  worthy  pastor  — 
The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 
That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 
That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 
Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 
Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 
Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 
But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 
He  knew  the  chart 
Of  the  sailor's  heart, 
All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 
All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 
All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 
And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course- 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he :  — 


THE  BUILDING   OF   THE  SHIP. 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea. 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 


238  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exalting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 


And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say,  — 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! " 


How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 


Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship ! 
Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer ! 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 


Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 


THE  BUILDING   OF   THE   SHIP.       239 

Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great ! 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 


240  BY   THE  SEASIDE. 


THE   EVENING    STAR. 

JUST  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 
And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 

Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Chrysaor  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 
That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly ! 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE    SEA. 

AH  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 


THE  SECRET  OF   THE  SEA.  24! 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal, 

Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore ; 
And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailors  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  :  — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 

Steering  onward  to  the  land  ;  — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 

Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 

Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — 

*'  Helmsman !  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song!" 

'*  Wouldst  thou," — so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 

Comprehend  its  mystery  ! " 


242  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 
Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 

And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 
Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT.  243 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek? 


SIR    HUMPHREY    GILBERT. 

SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glistened  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 


244  BY   THE  SEASIDE. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  never  more,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand ; 

"  Do  not  fear!  Heaven  is  as  near,'' 
He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land  !  " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 
Without  a  signal's  sound, 

Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 


The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  r,ain,  to  the  Spanish  Main 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE.  245 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


THE    LIGHTHOUSE. 

THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away. 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  its  glare 

Not  one  alone ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 


246  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sails 
Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink  ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 

Burns  on  for  evermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 
The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace  ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 


THE  FIRE   OF  DRIFT-WOOD.         247 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 


"  Sail  on!  "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships  f 
And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span  ; 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 
Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man !  " 


THE    FIRE    OF   DRIFT-WOOD. 

WE  sat  within  the  farmhouse  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 


Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port,  — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,' 

The  lighthouse,  —  the  dismantled  fort,  — 
The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 


We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 


»48  BY   THE  SEASIDE. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  \ve  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again ; 


The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 


THE  FIRE   OF  DRIFT-IVOOD.         249 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames,  — 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach,  — 

The  gusty  blast,  —  the  bickering  flames,  — 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain,  — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed  !  O  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within, 


250  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


BY  THE    FIRESIDE. 


RESIGNATION. 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoever  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is  transition. 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 


RESIGN  A  TION.  2  5  I 

She  is  not  dead,  —the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 


252  BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE   BUILDERS. 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great. 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build . 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 


SAND  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS.  253 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 
Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 

Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 

With  a  firm  and  ample  base ; 
And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 
Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND    OF    THE    DESERT    IN     AN     HOUR 
GLASS. 

A  HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known ! 


254  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 

Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 
When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 

His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 

Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

With  westward  steps  depart ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart-! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed  ! 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I  gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand  ;  — 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE.  255 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 

Across  the  boundless  plain, 
The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  ! 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 

BLACK  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky  ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 

But  the  night  is  fair, 
And  everywhere 
A  warm,  soft,  vapor  fills  the  air, 
And  distant  sounds  seem  near  • 


256  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

I  hear  the  cry 

Of  their  voices  high 

Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 

But  their  forms  I  cannot  see.  , 

O,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs. 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


THE   OPEN   WINDOW. 


THE   OPEN   WINDOW. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


258  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 


KING   WITLAF'S   DRINKING-HORN. 

WITLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 
To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 

His  drinking-horn  bequeathed, — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 
In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 

Like  dewdrops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 

Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 
And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 

They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 


CASPAR  BECERRA. 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholomasus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving. 
Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !  " 


CASPAR   BECERRA. 

BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 
Still  he  mused  and  dreamed  of  fame, 

'  T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 

That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 
But  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 


260  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 
Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 

And  the  day's  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  !  " 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS   IN  POUND. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 
In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 

Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND.  26 1 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 

From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 
T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 

Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 

There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 

Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 
But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter. 

Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 


262  BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farmyard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 


From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER'S  DRAPA.  263 


TEGNER'S    DRAPA. 

I  HEARD  a  voice,  that  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 
And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 

Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky,, 

Blasts  from  Niffelheim 

Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 

Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 

"  Balder  the  Beautiful 

Is  dead,  is  dead  ! " 

And  died  away 

Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 


264  BY  THE   FIRESIDE. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 
All  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 


Hceder,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 
The  accursed  mistletoe ! 


They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 


They  launched  the  burning  ship  ! 

It  floated  far  away 

Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 


TEGNER'S  DRAPA.  26$ 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 

But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 

Rises  a  new  land  of  song, 

Fairer  than  the  old. 

Over  its  meadows  green 

Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 


Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love ! 


The  law  of  force  is  dead ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 


Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  1 


266  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

SONNET 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 

O  PRECIOUS  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 

Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 

Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 

Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have  caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 

O  happy  Poet !  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice ! 


THE    SINGERS. 

GOD  sent  his  singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 


THE   SINGERS.  267 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 


A  gray,  old  man,  the  third  and  last. 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 


And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 


But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 


"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


268  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


SUSPIRIA. 

TAKE  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  them  canst  call  thine  own ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 


Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 


Take  them,  O  great  Eternity ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust, 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust. 


HYMN 

FOR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION. 

CHRIST  to  the  young  man  said:    "Yet  one  thing 
more; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor,    • 

And  come  and  follow  me  ! " 


HYMN.  269 


Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 
Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 

And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 
Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 


And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 

That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
"  Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve?" 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 
To  make  the  scene  more  fair ; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust !     O  endless  sense  of  rest ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast. 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


2/0  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

ONLY  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright ; 
Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 
And  take,  O  Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF   CAST^L-CUILLE. 

FROM    THE   GASCON    OF  JASMIN. 
I. 

AT  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 
When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 

In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve  : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day ! " 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending ; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 


THE  BLIND   GIRL    OF  CAST&L-CUILL&.  2/1 

Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hillside  steep, 
They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 
Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

"The    roads    should    blossom,    the    roads    should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day !  " 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue ;  without  one  cloud  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 

And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 


When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 


2/2  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

A  band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest 

and  merriest ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries : 
"  Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be!" 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 

That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall? 
O,  no  !  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 


THE  BLIND   GIRL   OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.    273 

Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 
What  lovers  !  they  give  not  a  single  caress ! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 
What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him  oppress  ? 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill, 

In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 

Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls. 

Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 

Daughter  of  a  veteran  old ; 

And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 

That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 

Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 

And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 

Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared ; 

For  them  the  altar  was  prepared ; 

But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight, 

The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 

The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 

Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 
All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged. 
Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled : 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
"Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate! 


2/4  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane ! "     And    by  a  foun 
tain's  side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  fleet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 
Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 
She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 
Another  a  happy  wedding-day, 
And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straightway. 
All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 
And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say :  — 
"  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware! 
Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !  " 
And  she  was  silent ;  and  the  maidens  foil- 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear ; 


THE  BLIND   GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.    2?$ 

But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 
What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again ; 
The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear ;  — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  the  refrain  :  — 

"  The    roads    should    blossom,    the    roads    should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day ! " 


II. 

And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 
Thus  lamented  Margaret, 
In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  :  — 

"  He  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last ! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past ; 

Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far ! 
And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star ! 
Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  benighted, 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away ! 
Come  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted ! 


2/6  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

What  joy  have  I  without  thee  ?  what  delight  ? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

Forever  night !  forever  night ! 
When  he  is  gone  't  is  dark  !  my  soul  is  sad ! 
I  suffer  !  O  my  God  !  come,  make  me  glad. 
When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 
Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has  blue  eyes ! 
Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of  love, 
A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief!  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 
Earth  I  forget,  —  and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses  ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all ! 
Where  is  Baptiste  ?  he  hears  not  when  I  call ! 
A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 

I  need  some  bough  to  twine  around ! 
In  pity  come !  be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 
True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound ! 

What  then  —  when  one  is  blind? 


"  Who  knows?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah  !  woe  is  me !  then  bear  me  to  the  grave  ! 

O  God  !  what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
\Away !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  !  I  need  not  fear ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill  ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL   OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.    2// 

But  some  one  comes  !     Though  blind,  my  heart  can 

see ! 
And  that  deceives  me  not !  't  is  he  !  \  is  he  !  " 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless  eyes ; 
'T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  :  — 

"  Angela  the  Bride  has  passed ! 
I  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by ; 
Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I  ! " 

«*  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

O  speak  !  who  may  the  bridegroom  be  ? Yl 

"  My  sister,  '  t  is  Baptiste,  thy  friend  !  " 

A  cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said ; 
A  milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks ; 

An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 

Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 

Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 

Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 
She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed; 
A  wax  Madonna  as  a  peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 


2/8  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

"  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 
Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing? 
How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest ! 
I  would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  come  ;  for  they  do  not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said ! " 
"  I  know  it !  "  answered  Margaret ; 

Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 
Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 

Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

"  Paul,  be  not  sad  !     '  T  is  a  holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  a  while  alone." 
Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat ! 
I  am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath  ! 
But  thou  art  cold,  — art  chill  as  death  ; 
My  little  friend  !  what  ails  thee,  sweet?  " 
'*  Nothing!  I  heard  them  singing  home  the  bride; 
And,  as  I  listened  to  the  song, 
I  thought  my  turn  would  come  ere  long, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 
To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 
Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL   OF  CASTkL-CUILLfc.    2/9 

And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou? 
It  must  seem  long  to  him  ;  —  methinks   I   see    him 
now  ! " 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press : 

"  Thy  love  I  cannot  all  approve  ; 
We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness  :  — 
Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayst  love  him  less  !" 

"  The  more  I  pray,  the  more  I  love  ! 
It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  ! " 
It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold ; 

But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 

She  takes  a  sweet,  contented  air; 

Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 

At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 

Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 
So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 

She   says,    "She    may   be    saved!    she    nothing 
knows ! " 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art  ! 


III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently ! 


280  BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flower's  perfume ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 
And  'neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

'Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
' '  O  God  !  forgive  me  now !  " 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brothers  hand, 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned. 

With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 
Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 

Round  her  at  times  exhale, 
And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray, 


THE  BLIND  GIRL   OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.    28 1 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 


"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by !  " 
Thus  Margaret  said.     "  Where  are  we  ?  we  ascend !  " 

"  Yes  ;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfrey  cry  ? 
The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

'  O  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low ; 
Take  care  of  Paul ;  I  feel  that  I  am  dying ! ' 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying? 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set ; 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret? 

Come  in  i     The  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 
Thou  tremblest !     O   my  God  !    thou   art  going  to 
swoon  ! " 


282  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

She    could    no    more,  —  the    blind    girl,  weak  and 

weary ! 

A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 
"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter?  "  —  and  she 
started ; 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 

Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 

No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 

They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 
With  booming  sound, 
Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain  ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 
Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CAST&L-CUILL&.    283 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 

To  be  a  bride  is  all !     The  pretty  lisper 

Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper 

"  How  beautiful !  how  beautiful  she  is  ! " 


But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 

For  already  the  Mass  is  said ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed  ;  Baptiste  receives  it ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 
*T  is  spoken ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 
"  'T  is  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 
Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see ! 
"  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "since  thou  hast  wished  my 

death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  ! " 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell ! 


At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 


2  84  RY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no  !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say :  — 

**  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  t,o-day ! " 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

FROM    THE    NOEL    BOURGUIGNON    DE   GUI    BAROZAI. 

I  HEAR  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 
Hark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 


In  December  ring 
Ev^ry  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


A    CHRISTMAS   CAROL.  28 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Washerwomen  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


286  BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


NOTES.  287 


NOTES. 


Page  165.     All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early  governors 
of  Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings  of  France.  Lyderick 
du  Bucq,  in  the  days  of  Clotaire  the  Second,  was  the  first 
of  them  ;  and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  stole  away  the 
fair  Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald,  from  the  French 
court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was  the  last.  After  him, 
the  title  of  Forester  was  changed  to  that  of  Count. 
Philippe  d  'Alsace,  Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de 
Crecy,  coming  later  in  the  order  of  time,  were  therefore 
rather  Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe  went  twice  to  the 
Holy  Land  as  a  Crusader,  and  died  of  the  plague  at  St. 
Jean-d'Acre,  shortly  after  the  capture  of  the  city  by  the 
Christians.  Guy  de  Dampierre  died  in  the  prison  of  Com- 
piegne.  Louis  de  Crecy  was  son  and  successor  of  Robert 
de  Bethune,  who  strangled  his  wife,  Yolande  de  Bour- 
gogne,  with  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  poisoned, 
at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his  son  by  his  first 
wife,  Blanche  d'Anjou. 

Page  165.     Stately  dames ,  like  queens  attended. 

When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France,  visited  Flanders 
with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished  at  the  magnificence 
of  the  dames  of  Bruges,  that  she  exclaimed,  "  Je  croyais 
etre  seule  reine  ici,  mais  il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre  qui 
se  trouvent  dans  nos  prisons  sont  tous  des  princes,  car 


288  NOTES. 

leurs  femmes  sont  habille'es  comme  des  princesses  ct  des 
reines." 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and  Ypres 
went  to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King  John,  in  1351,  they 
were  received  with  great  pomp  and  distinction;  but,  being 
invited  to  a  festival,  they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table 
were  not  furnished  with  cushions  ;  whereupon,  to  make 
known  their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  regard  to  their 
dignity,  they  folded  their  richly  embroidered  cloaks  and 
seated  themselves  upon  them.  On  rising  from  table,  they 
left  their  cloaks  behind  them,  and,  being  informed  of  their 
apparent  forgetfulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycke,  burgomaster 
of  Bruges,  replied,  "  We  Flemings  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  away  our  cushions  after  dinner." 

Page  165.     Knights  who  bore  the  F~leece  of  Cold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon,  espoused 
Isabella  of  Portugal,  on  the  loth  of  January,  1430,  and 
on  the  same  day  instituted  the  famous  order  of  the  Fleece 
of  Gold. 

Page  165.     /  beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was  left  by  the 
death  of  her  father,  Charles-le-Temeraire,  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  the  richest  heiress  of  Europe.  She  came  to 
Bruges,  as  Countess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same 
year  was  married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maximilian. 
According  to  the  custom  of  the  time,  the  Duke  of  Bavaria, 
Maximilian's  substitute,  slept  with  the  princess.  They 
were  both  in  complete  dress,  separated  by  a  naked  sword, 
and  attended  by  four  armed  guards.  Marie  was  adored 
by  her  subjects  for  her  gentleness  and  her  many  other 
virtues. 


NOTES.  289 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Third, 
and  is  the  same  person  mentioned  afterwards  in  the  poem 
of  Nuremberg  as  the  Kaiser  Maximilian,  and  the  hero  of 
Pfinzing's  poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been  imprisoned 
by  the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  refused  to  release 
him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the  public  square,  and 
to  swear  on  the  Holy  Evangelists  and  the  body  of  Saint 
Donatus  that  he  would  not  take  vengeance  upon  them  for 
their  rebellion. 

Page  1 66.      The  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs  of  Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish  history,  was 
fought  under  the  walls  of  Courtray,  on  the  nth  of  July, 
1302,  between  the  French  and  the  Flemings,  the  former 
commanded  by  Robert,  Comte  d'Artois,  and  the  latter  by 
Guillaume  de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte  de  Namur.  The 
French  army  was  completely  routed,  with  a  loss  of  twenty 
thousand  infantry  and  seven  thousand  cavalry ;  among 
whom  were  sixty-three  princes,  dukes,  and  counts,  seven 
hundred  lords-banneret,  and  eleven  hundred  noblemen. 
The  flower  of  the  French  nobility  perished  on  that  day,  to 
which  history  has  given  the  name  of  the  Journee  des 
Eperons  a"  Or,  from  the  great  number  of  golden  spurs 
foimd  on  the  field  of  battle.  Seven  hundred  of  them 
were  hung  up  as  a  trophy  in  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Courtray  ;  and,  as  the  cavaliers  of  that  day  wore  but  a 
single  spur  each,  these  vouched  to  God  for  the  violent  and 
bloody  death  of  seven  hundred  of  his  creatures. 

Page  166.     Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging  a  canal  at 
Minnewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of  the  Lys  from  Deynze 
to  their  city,  they  were  attacked  and  routed  by  the  citizens 


2  QO  NOTES. 

of  Ghent,  whose  commerce  would  have  been  much  injured 
by  the  canal.  They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons,  captain  of  a 
military  company  at  Ghent,  called  the  Chaperons  Blanc, 
He  had  great  sway  over  the  turbulent  populace,  who,  in 
those  prosperous  times  of  the  city,  gained  an  easy  liveli 
hood  by  laboring  two  or  three  days  in  the  week,  and  had 
the  remaining  four  or  five  to  devote  to  public  affairs.  The 
fight  at  Minnewater  was  followed  by  open  rebellion  against 
Louis  de  Maele,  the  Count  of  Flanders  and  Protector  of 
Bruges.  His  superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem  was  pillaged 
and  burnt  ;  and  the  insurgents  forced  the  gates  of  Bruges, 
and  entered  in  triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their 
head.  A  few  days  afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps 
by  poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a  check  at  the  village 
of  Nevele;  and  two  hundred  of  them  perished  in  the 
church,  which  was  burned  by  the  Count's  orders.  One  of 
the  chiefs,  Jean  de  Lannoy,  took  refuge  in  the  belfry. 
From  the  summit  of  the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse 
filled  with  gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It  was  in 
vain.  His  enemies  cried  to  him  from  below  to  save  him 
self  as  best  he  might  ;  and,  half  suffocated  with  smoke 
and  flame,  he  threw  himself  from  the  tower  and  perished 
at  their  feet.  Peace  was  soon  afterwards  established,  and 
the  Count  retired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  1 66.      The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Goldon  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church  of  St. 
Sophia,  at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the  Crusades,  and 
placed  on  the  belfry  of  Bruges,  was  afterwards  trans 
ported  to  Ghent  by  Philip  van  Artevelde,  and  still  adorns 
the  belfry  of  that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is,  "  Mynen 


NOTES.  291 

naem  is  Roland ;  ah  ik  klcp  is  er  brand,  and  als  ik  luy 
is  er  victorie  in  het  land. ' '  My  name  is  Roland  ;  when 
I  toll  there  is  fire,  and  when  I  ring  there  is  victory  in  the 
land. 

Page  172.      That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its 
hand  through  every  clime. 

An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs  thus :  — 

"  Niirnberg  V  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land" 

Nuremberg's  hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  172.      Sat  the  poet  Alelchior  singing  Kaiser  Alaxi- 
milian's  praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  Ger 
man  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  hero  of  his 
Teuerdank  was  the  reigning  emperor,  Maximilian  ;  and 
the  poem  was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day  what  the 
Orlando  Furioso  was  to  the  Italians.  Maximilian  is  men 
tioned  before,  in  the  Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  page  165. 

Page   172.     /;/  the  church   of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  en 
shrined  his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church  which  bears 
his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in  Nuremberg. 
It  is  of  bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and  his 
sons,  who  labored  upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned 
with  nearly  one  hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size  and  beauty. 


2Q2  NOTES. 

Page  173.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 
pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the  sacrament, 
is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece  of 
sculpture  in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the  height  of  sixty- 
four  feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir,  whose  richly  painted 
windows  cover  it  with  varied  colors. 

Page  174.      Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the  original 
corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans  Sachs,  the  cob 
bler  of  Nuremberg,  though  not  one  of  the  original  Twelve, 
was  the  most  renowned  of  the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as 
the  most  voluminous.  He  flourished  in  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury;  and  left  behind  him  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of 
manuscript,  containing  two  hundred  and  eight  plays,  one 
thousand  and  seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and  between  four 
and  five  thousand  lyric  poems. 

Page  174.     As  in  Adam  Puscktnan's  song. 

Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of  Hans 

chs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a  vision :  — 

"  An  old  man, 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful,  with  golden  clasps." 

Page  1 88.      The  Occupation  of  Orion. 

Astronomically  speaking,  this  title  is  incorrect;  as  I 
apply  to  a  constellation  what  can  properly  be  applied  to 
some  of  its  stars  only.  But  my  observation  is  made  from 
the  hill  of  song,  and  not  from  that  of  science;  and  will, 


NOTES.  293 

I  trust,   be  found    sufficiently   accurate    for    the    present 
purpose. 

Page  203.      Walter  von  der  Vogekveid. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  or  Bird-Meadow,  was  one 
of  the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
He  triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  in  that  poetic 
contest  at  Wartburg  Castle,  known  in  literary  history  as 
the  War  of  Wartburg. 

Page  211.     Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  pre-eminence  the  mon 
arch  of  farmers.  According  to  the  German  tradition,  in 
seasons  of  great  abundance,  his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine 
on  a  golden  bridge  at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields 
and  the  vineyards.  During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  dis 
dain,  says  Montesquieu,  "  to  sells  the  eggs  from  the  farm 
yards  of  his  domains,  and  the  superfluous  vegetables  of  his 
gardens;  while  he  distributed  among  his  people  the  wealth 
of  the  Lombards  and  the  immense  treasures  of  the  Huns." 

Page  233.     Behold ',  at' last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  wasf 
Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  passage  by  stating, 
that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are  launched 
fully  rigged  and  sparred.  I  have  availed  myself  of  the 
exception,  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than  the  general 
rule;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is  neither  a  blunder 
nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject  a  friend  in  Portland, 
Me.,  writes  me  thus  :  — 

"  In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New  York,  ships 
are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save 


294  NOTES. 

time,  or  to  make  a  show.  There  was  a  fine,  large  ship 
launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  rigged  and 
sparred.  Some  years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with 
her  rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed 
the  next  day  and  —  was  never  heard  of  again  !  I  hope 
this  will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem !  " 

Page  243.      Sir  Hiimphrey  Gilbert. 

"When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were  near 
enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sitting  in  the 
stern,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  On  the  gth  of  September 
he  was  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people 
of  the  Hind  to  say,  '  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by 
land.'  In  the  following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud 
denly  disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other  vessel  kept  a 
good  lookout  for  him  during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage. 
On  the  22d  of  September  they  arrived,  through  much 
tempest  and  peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  nothing  more  was 
seen  or  heard  of  the  Admiral."  —  Belknap^s  American 
Biography,  I.  203. 

Page  270.      The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-  Cuilfc. 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is  to  the  South 
of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the  South  of  Scotland,  —  the 
representative  of  the  heart  of  the  people, — one  of  those 
happy  bards  who  are  born  with  their  mouths  full  of  birds 
(/a  IOMCO  plena  d'aouzelous}.  He  has  written  his  own 
biography  in  a  poetic  form,  and  the  simple  narrative  of 
his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  triumphs,  is  very  touch 
ing.  He  still  lives  at  Agen,  on  the  Garonne;  and  long 
may  he  live  there  to  delight  his  native  land  with  native 
songs ! 

The  following  description  of  his  person  and  way  of  life 


NOTES.  295 

is  taken  from  the  graphic  pages  of  "Beam  and  the  Pyre 
nees,"  by  Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  whose  charming  pen  has 
done  so  much  to  illustrate  the  French  provinces  and  their 
literature. 

"  At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du  Gravier,  is  a 
row  of  small  houses,  — some  cafes,  others  shops,  the  indi 
cation  of  which  is  a  painted  cloth  placed  across  the  way, 
with  the  owner's  name  in  bright  gold  letters,  in  the  manner 
of  the  arcades  in  the  streets,  and  their  announcements. 
One  of  the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  'observed,  a 
bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold;  on  which,  in  large 
gold  letters,  appeared  the  name  of  'Jasmin,  Coiffeur.' 
We  entered,  and  were  welcomed  by  a  smiling,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  informed  us  that  her  husband  was  busy  at 
that  moment  dressing  a  customer's  hair,  but  he  was  desi 
rous  to  receive  us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his 
parlor  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

"  She  exhibited  to  us  a  laurel  crown  of  gold,  of  delicate 
workmanship,  sent  from  the  city  of  Clemence  Isaure, 
Toulouse,  to  the  poet;  who  will  probably  one  day  take 
his  place  in  the  capitoul.  Next  came  a  golden  cup,  with 
an  inscription  in  his  honor,  given  by  the  citizens  of  Auch; 
a  gold  watch,  chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  king,  Louis 
Philippe;  an  emerald  ring  worn  and  presented  by  the 
lamented  Duke  of  Orleans;  a  pearl  pin,  by  the  graceful 
Duchess,  who,  on  the  poet's  visit  to  Paris,  accompanied 
by  his  son,  received  him  in  the  words  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Henri  Quatre:  — 

'  Brabes  Gaseous ! 

A  moun  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  creyre  : 
Benes  !  benes  !  ey  plaze  de  bous  beyre  : 
Aproucha  bous ! ' 


296  NOTES. 

A  fine  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the  town  of  Pau, 
after  its  citizens  had  given  fetes  in  his  honor,  and  loaded 
him  with  caresses  and  praises;  and  nicknacks  and  jewels 
of  all  descriptions  offered  to  him  by  lady-ambassadresses, 
and  great  lords;  English  'misses'  and  'miladis;'  and 
French,  and  foreigners  of  all  nations  who  did  or  did  not 
understand  Gascon. 

"All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  convincing;  Jasmin, 
the  barber,  might  only  be  a  fashion,  a  furore,  a  caprice, 
after  all;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  knew  how  to  get  up 
a  scene  well.  When  we  had  become  nearly  tired  of  look 
ing  over  these  tributes  to  his  genius,  the  door  opened,  and 
the  poet  himself  appeared.  His  manner  was  free  and 
unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively;  he  received  our 
compliments  naturally,  and  like  one  accustomed  to  hom 
age;  said  he  was  ill,  and  unfortunately  too  hoarse  to  read 
anything  to  us,  or  should  have  been  delighted  to  do  so. 
He  spoke  with  a  broad  Gascon  accent,  and  very  rapidly 
and  eloquently;  ran  over  the  story  of  his  successes;  told 
us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a  beggar,  and  all  his  fam 
ily  very  poor;  that  he  was  now  as  rich  as  he  wished  to  be  : 
his  son  placed  in  a  good  position  at  Nantes;  then  showed 
us  his  son's  picture,  and  spoke  of  his  disposition,  to  which 
his  brisk  little  wife  added,  that,  though  no  fool,  he  had 
not  his  father's  genius,  to  which  truth  Jasmin  assented  as 
a  matter  of  course.  I  told  him  of  having  seen  mention 
made  of  him  in  an  English  review;  which  he  said  had 
been  sent  him  by  Lord  Durham,  who  had  paid  him  a  visit; 
and  I  then  spoke  of  '  Me  cal  mouri '  as  known  to  me. 
This  was  enough  to  make  him  forget  his  hoarseness  and 
every  other  evil :  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  imagine  that 
that  little  song  was  his  best  composition;  it  was  merely 
his  first;  he  must  try  to  read  to  me  a  little  of  '  L'Abuglo,' 


NOTES.  297 

—  a  few  verses  of  '  Francouneto  ; '  —  '  You  will  be 
charmed,'  said  he;  '  but  if  I  were  well,  and  you  would 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  some  time,  if 
you  were  not  merely  running  through  Agen,  I  would  kill 
you  with  weeping,  —  I  would  make  you  die  with  distress 
for  my  poor  Margarido,  —  my  pretty  Francouneto  !  ' 

"He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book,  from  a  pile 
lying  on  the  table,  and  making  us  sit  close  to  him,  he 
pointed  out  the  French  translation  on  one  side,  which  he 
told  us  to  follow  while  he  read  in  Gascon.  He  began  in 
a  rich,  soft  voice,  and  as  he  advanced,  the  surprise  ot 
Hamlet  on  hearing  the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of 
Hecuba  was  but  a  type  of  ours,  to  find  ourselves  carried 
away  by  the  spell  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  swam  in 
tears  ;  he  became  pale  and  red  ;  he  trembled  ;  he  re 
covered  himself  ;  his  face  was  now  joyous,  now  exulting, 
gay,  jocose  ;  in  fact,  he  was  twenty  actors  in  one  ;  he  rang 
the  changes  from  Rachel  to  Bouffe  ;  and  he  finished  by 
delighting  us,  besides  beguiling  us  of  our  tears,  and  over' 
whelming  us  with  astonishment. 

"He  would  have  been  a  treasure  on  the  stage  ;  for  he 
is  still,  though  his  first  youth  is  past,  remarkably  good- 
looking  and  striking;  with  black,  sparkling  eyes,  of 
intense  expression;  a  fine,  ruddy  complexion;  a  counte 
nance  of  wondrous  mobility;  a  good  figure  ;  and  action 
full  of  fire  and  grace;  he  has  handsome  hands,  which  he 
uses  with  infinite  effect;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  best 
actor  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  I  could  now  quite  under 
stand  what  a  troubadour  or  jongleur  might  be,  and  I  look 
upon  Jasmin  as  a  revived  specimen  of  that  extinct  race. 
Such  as  he  is  might  have  been  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of 
Avignon,  the  friend  of  Cceur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the 
death  of  the  hero  in  such  moving  strains  ;  such  might  have 


298  NOTES. 

been  Bernard  de  Ventadour,  who  sang  the  praises  of 
Queen  Elinore's  beauty  ;  such  Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye, 
on  his  own  Garonne  ;  such  the  wild  Vidal :  certain  it  is, 
that  none  of  these  troubadours  of  old  could  more  move, 
by  their  singing  or  reciting,  than  Jasmin,  in  whom  all  their 
long-smothered  fire  and  traditional  magic  seems  reillumined. 
"We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead  of  minutes 
with  the  poet  ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  any  apology,  — 
only  regretted  that  his  voice  was  so  out  of  tune,  in  con 
sequence  of  a  violent  cold,  under  which  he  was  really 
laboring,  and  hoped  to  see  us  again.  He  told  us  our 
country-women  of  Pau  had  laden  him  with  kindness  and 
attention,  and  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty 
of  certain  '  misses,'  that  I  feared  his  little  wife  would  feel 
somewhat  pique'd  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  stood  by, 
smiling  and  happy,  and  enjoying  the  stories  of  his  triumphs. 
I  remarked  that  he  had  restored  the  poetry  of  the  trouba 
dours  ;  asked  him  if  he  knew  their  songs  ;  and  said  he  was 
worthy  to  stand  at  their  head.  '  I  am,  indeed,  a  trouba 
dour,'  said  he,  with  energy  ;  'but  I  am  far  beyond  them 
all,  they  were  but  beginners  ;  they  never  composed  a 
poem  like  my  Francouneto  !  there  are  no  poets  in  France 
now,  —  there  cannot  be  ;  the  language  does  not  admit  of 
it  ;  where  is  the  fire,  the  spirit,  the  expression,  the  tender 
ness,  the  force  of  the  Gascon?  French  is  but  the  ladder 
to  reach  to  the  first  floor  of  Gascon,  —  how  can  you  get  up 
to  a  height  except  by  a  ladder ! ' 

"  I  returned  by  Agen,  after  an  absence  in  the  Pyrenees 
of  some  months,  and  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  Jasmin 
and  his  dark-eyed  wife.  I  did  not  expect  that  I  should  be 
recognized  ;  but  the  moment  I  entered  the  little  shop  I 
was  hailed  as  an  old  friend.  'Ah  !  '  cried  Jasmin,  '  enfin 


NOTES.  299 

la  voila  encore ! '  I  could  not  but  be  flattered  by  this 
recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was  less  on  my  own  account 
that  I  was  thus  welcomed,  than  because  a  circumstance 
had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he  thought  I  could  perhaps 
explain.  He  produced  several  French  newspapers,  in 
which  he  pointed  out  to  me  an  article  headed  '  Jasmin  a 
Londres  ; '  being  a  translation  of  certain  notices  of  him 
self,  which  had  appeared  in  a  leading  English  literary 
journal.  He  had,  he  said, -been  informed  of  the  honor 
done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  assured  me  his  fame 
had  been  much  spread  by  this  means  ;  and  he  was  so  de 
lighted  on  the  occasion,  that  he  had  resolved  to  learn 
English,  in  order  that  he  might  judge  of  the  translations 
from  his  works,  which,  he  had  been  told,  were  well  done. 
I  enjoyed  his  surprise,  while  I  informed  him  that  I  knew 
who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator  ;  and  explained  the 
reason  for  the  verses  giving  pleasure  in  an  English  dress  to 
be  the  superior  simplicity  of  the  English  language  over 
modern  French,  for  which  he  has  a  great  contempt,  as  un 
fitted  for  lyrical  composition.  He  inquired  of  me  respect 
ing  Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been  likened  ;  and  begged  me 
to  tell  him  something  of  Moore.  The  delight  of  himself 
and  his  wife  was  amusing,  at  having  discovered  a  secret 
which  had  puzzled  them  so  long. 

"He  had  a  thousand  things  to  tell  me  ;  in  particular, 
that  he  had  only  the  day  before  received  a  letter  from  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  informing  him  that  she  had  ordered 
a  medal  of  her  late  husband  to  be  struck,  the  first  of 
which  would  be  sent  to  him :  she  also  announced  to  him 
the  agreeable  news  of  the  king  having  granted  him  a  pen 
sion  of  a  thousand  francs.  He  smiled  and  wept  by  turns, 
as  he  told  all  this  ;  and  declared,  much  as  he  was  elated  at 
the  possession  of  a  sum  which  made  him  a  rich  man  for 


30O  NOTES. 

life,  the  kindness  of  the  Duchess  gratified  him  even 
more. 

"  He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read  us  two  new 
poems  ;  both  charming,  and  full  of  grace  and  naivete ;  and 
one  very  affecting,  being  an  address  to  the  king,  alluding 
to  the  death  of  his  son.  As  he  read,  his  wife  stood  by, 
and  fearing  we  did  not  quite  comprehend  his  language, 
she  made  a  remark  to  that  effect :  to  which  he  answered  im 
patiently,  '  Nonsense,  — don't  you  see  they  are  in  tears.' 
This  was  unanswerable  ;  and  we  were  allowed  to  hear  the 
poem  to  the  end  ;  and  I  certainly  never  listened  to  any 
thing  more  feelingly  and  energetically  delivered. 

"  We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was  anxious  to 
detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he  told  me  that  he  had 
been  by  some  accused  of  vanity.  '  O,'  he  rejoined,  '  what 
would  you  have  !  I  am  a  child  of  nature,  and  cannot  con 
ceal  my  feelings  ;  the  only  difference  between  me  and  a 
man  of  refinement  is,  that  he  knows  how  to  conceal  his 
vanity  and  exultation  at  success,  which  I  let  everybody 
see.'  "  — Beam  and  the  Pyrenees,  I.  369,  et  seq. 

Page  284.     A  Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas  in  Burgundy  is 
from  M.  Fertiault's  Coup  d* oeil  sur  les  Noels  en  Bourgogne, 
prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels  Bourguignons  de 
Bernard  de  la  Monnoye  (Gui  BarfaaC),  1842. 

"  Every  year,  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people  refresh 
their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and  begin  preluding, 
in  the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols  whose 
invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming  of  the  Messiah. 
They  take  from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little  collections  be 
grimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the  press  and  some 
times  the  pen,  has  consigned  these  songs;  and  as  soon  as 


NOTES.  301 

the  first  Sunday  of  Advent  sounds,  they  gossip,  they  gad 
about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside,  sometimes  at  one 
house,  sometimes  at  another,  taking  turns  in  paying  for 
the  chestnuts  and  white  wine,  but  singing  with  one  common 
voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the  Little  Jesus*  There  are 
very  few  villages  even,  which,  during  all  the  evenings  of 
Advent,  do  not  hear  some  of  these  curious  canticles  shouted 
in  their  streets,  to  the  nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.  In  this 
case  the  minstrel  comes  as  a  re-enforcement  to  the  singers 
at  the  fireside;  he  brings  and  adds  his  dose  of  joy  (spon 
taneous  or  mercenary,  it  matters  little  which)  to  the  joy 
which  breathes  around  the  hearthstone;  and  when  the 
voices  vibrate  and  resound,  one  voice  more  is  always 
welcome.  There,  it  is  not  the  purity  of  the  notes  which 
makes  the  concert,  but  the  quantity,  —  non  qualitas,  sed 
quantitas ;  then  (to  finish  at  once  with  the  minstrel),  when 
the  Saviour  has  at  length  been  born  in  the  manger,  and 
the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve  is  passed,  the  rustic  piper 
makes  his  round  among  the  houses,  where  every  one 
compliments  and  thanks  him,  and,  moreover,  gives  him 
in  small  coin  the  price  of  the  shrill  notes  with  which  he 
has  enlivened  the  evening  entertainments. 

"More  or  less,  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on  in  this 
way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the  difference  of  some 
gallons  of  wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts.  But  this 
famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon  a  higher 
key;  the  closing  evening  must  be  a  memorable  one.  The 
toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall;  then  comes  the  hour  of  supper, 
admonishing  divers  appetites;  and  groups,  as  numerous  as 
possible,  are  formed  to  take  together  this  comfortable  even 
ing  repast.  The  supper  finished,  a  circle  gathers  around 
the  hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in  order  this  evening 
after  a  particular  fashion,  and  which  at  a  later  hour  of 


302  NOTES. 

th©  night  is  to  become  the  object  of  special  interest  to  the 
children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enormous  log  has  been 
placed.  This  log  assuredly  does  not  change  its  nature,  but 
it  changes  its  name  during  this  evening :  it  is  called  the 
Suche  (the  Yule-log).  « Look  you,'  say  they  to  the  children, 
'  if  you  are  good  this  evening,  Noel '  (for  with  children  one 
must  always  personify)  '  will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the 
night.'  And  the  children  sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet 
as  their  turbulent  little  natures  will  permit.  The  groups  of 
older  persons,  not  always  as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize 
this  good  opportunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry 
hearts  and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of  the 
miraculous  Noel.  For  this  final  solemnity,  they  have  kept 
the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic,  the  most  electrify 
ing  carols.  Noel !  Noel !  Noel !  This  magic  word  re 
sounds  on  all  sides;  it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is  served  up 
with  every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  canticles  which  are 
heard  on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  begin 
and  end  with  this  word;  which  is,  one  may  say,  their  Alpha 
and  Omega,  their  crown  and  footstool.  This  last  evening, 
the  merry-making  is  prolonged.  Instead  of  retiring  at  ten 
or  eleven  o'clock,  as  is  generally  done  on  all  the  preceding 
evenings,  they  wait  for  the  stroke  of  midnight :  this  word 
sufficiently  proclaims  to  what  ceremony  they  are  going  to 
repair.  For  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells 
have  been  calling  the  faithful  with  a  triple-bob-major;  and 
each  one,  furnished  with  a  little  taper  streaked  with  various 
colors  (the  Christmas  Candle),  goes  through  the  crowded 
streets,  where  the  lanterns  are  dancing  like  Will-o'-the- 
Wisps,  at  the  impatient  summons  of  the  multitudinous 
chimes.  It  is  the  Midnight  Mass.  Once  inside  the  church, 
they  hear  with  more  or  less  piety  the  Mass,  emblematic  of 
the  coming  of  the  Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste 


NOTES.  303 

they  return  homeward,  always  in  numerous  groups;  they 
salute  the  Yule-log;  they  pay  homage  to  the  hearth;  they  sit 
down  at  table;  and,  amid  songs  which  reverberate  louder 
than  ever,  make  this  meal  of  after-Christmas,  so  long  looked 
for,  so  cherished,  so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which  it  has  been 
thought  fit  to  call,  we  hardly  know  why,  Rossigiion.  The 
supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as  you  may 
imagine,  to  the  appetite's  returning;  above  all,  if  the  going 
to  and  from  church  has  made  the  devout  eaters  feel  some 
little  shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting  north  wind.  Ros- 
signon  then  goes  on  merrily,  —  sometimes  far  into  the 
morning  hours;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually  throats  grow 
hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burns  out,  and  at 
last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one,  as  best  he  may,  regains 
his  domicile  and  his  bed,  and  puts  with  himself  between 
the*  sheets  the  material  fora  good  sore-throat,  or  a  good 
indigestion,  for  the  morrow.  Previous  to  this,  care  has 
been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden  shoes,  of 
the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which  shall  be  for  them,  on 
their  waking,  the  welcome  fruits  of  the  Christmas  log." 
In  the  Glossary,  the  Sttche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus  defined : 
"This  is  a  huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  fire  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is  called,  on  this 
account,  lai  Suche  de  Noei.  Then  the  father  of  the  family, 
particularly  among  the  middle  classes,  sings  solemnly 
Christmas  carols  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest 
of  whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Yule-log 
may  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile,  little  parcels 
of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log,  and  the 
children  come  and  pick  them  up,  believing,  in  good  faith, 
that  the  great  log  has  borne  them." 

THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

""       I30ct'59FK 

REG'D  LD 

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REC'D  LD 

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», 

TtECD  AH/C 

JAN    «  1975 

LD  21A-50m-4,'59 
(A1724slO)476B 


General  Library 

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